


like crashing in slow-motion

by amorremanet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Backstory, Character Study, Critical Self Care Failure, Crying, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentor/Protégé, POV Alternating, POV Keith (Voltron), POV Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Relationship, Sad Shiro (Voltron), Self-Harm, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Trust Issues, Vulnerability, in that Iverson is Shiro's mentor and also trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13562214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: After losing the Grandfather who raised him, Shiro throws himself headlong back into life at the Garrison. Desperate to believe that everything is fine, Shiro focuses on his extra studies, on working as Commander Iverson’s TA, on anything but dealing with his grief or giving himself space to mourn. For the most part, his façade fools everybody. Unfortunately for his desire to avoid dealing with his problems, compartmentalizing and denial can only last so long before something has to give.On the other hand is Keith. A driven cadet who’s earned everything that he has to his name, Keith sees Shiro as little more than a useless pretty boy whose family has a legacy with the Galaxy Garrison. As far as he knows, Shiro’s only gotten so far at the Garrison through a mix of dumb luck and nepotism. Keith’s perfectly contentnotto question any of his preconceived ideas about the Garrison’s resident golden boy. Unfortunately for his resolve, he keeps catching Shiro in vulnerable moments and spotting details that other people miss.





	like crashing in slow-motion

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was initially inspired by **[this tumblr headcanon/prompt post by @mighty-trash](http://mighty-trash.tumblr.com/post/168597036518)** , which was in turn inspired by her conversations with @oldmythos about some headcanons that Josh Keaton shared during the “Shironanigans” episode of the _Let’s Voltron!_ podcast…… and then I took the idea and very quickly lost control of my life, dragged in some of my own headcanons (like Shiro having a Ryou because I’m hopeless, and Iverson’s relationship with Shiro), and hey, here we are.
> 
> Also, the ranks and internal structure of the Galaxy Garrison have been entirely made up, based on some ass-backwards amalgamation of VLD canon, Star Trek (and in particular Starfleet), NASA, and the US Air Force. It is not meant to perfectly reflect how any IRL institutions work because I tossed several things into a blender and just went with it. Likewise, if anything in this fic sounds remotely scientific, please rest assured that it is not. I’m a squishy humanities, creative arts, and social sciences-leaning loser with an at-best casual interest in science, and I definitely prefer my sci-fi to be of the, “interesting character development, cool stories, and sociopolitical commentary with aliens or cyborgs or whatever” variety.
> 
> Basically, I’m not a scientist in the slightest and absolutely none of the science-sounding stuff should be considered reflective of reality because I took the _Star Trek_ approach to writing it: look up enough to get a semi-decent basis in reality and then make up the rest as necessary, using a philosophy best described by [Aurelio Voltaire Hernández](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Music/Voltaire) as, _“Bounce a graviton particle beam off the main deflector dish! / That’s the way we do things, lad! We're making shit up as we wish / The Klingons and the Romulans pose no threat to us / ’Cause if we find we’re in a bind, we just make some shit up”_ (“[The USS Make Shit Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bBD5yyT-s0)”).
> 
> For the folks who are concerned with ages: I’m going with some pre- _Paladin’s Handbook_ headcanons. Keith is 18 going on 19, Shiro and Ryou turned 22 a few weeks before their grandfather’s death, and this note is strictly a formality because they do absolutely nothing in this fic that could potentially be deemed untoward. Seriously, they barely even speak to each other until the end, and they both spend most of the fic thinking that Keith hates Shiro.

Among the crowd at the family’s Catholic church of choice, a Galaxy Garrison dress uniform can’t help sticking out. Shiro’s charcoal gray jacket doesn’t blend in with the all-black attire around him, much less when he stumbles in late, dragging his suitcase behind him and carrying his duffel bag. The jacket’s stiff, padded shoulders don’t look any less official when Shiro slouches ever-so-slightly. Not enough that Iverson would call Shiro out on it, under the present circumstances, but Shiro droops enough to get a sharp twist of guilt in the pit of his chest over his less-than-perfect posture.

As he shuffles toward the front rows, reserved for family members, he tries to ignore the glare of overhead lamps and candlelight off the insignias pinned to his chest. The blue bar from when he made Second Lieutenant. The green bar from when he made First Lieutenant. The collection of nested bronze wings he’s earned, moving up through the ranks of his specific field’s training: Fighter Pilot, Fighter Pilot First Class, Senior Airman. The gold bars from his recent promotion to Captain, a rank no one close to Shiro’s age has achieved since late Great-Uncle Tatsuya, some fifty years ago, even though Shiro’s never properly had command of anything. Additionally, Shiro wears a pin identifying him as Commander Iverson’s teaching assistant and a medal celebrating his participation in the mission to Titan and Hyperion two years ago.

Neither jaunt to Saturn’s moons was a new feat for humanity and Shiro had only served as its copilot, but the Garrison doled out the honors anyway. Now, the silver medal gleams when Aunt Satomi, Dad’s sister, stops him before the votive candles to tell him how relieved she is that he made it safely. That glimmering makes Shiro’s heart plummet further than his aunt’s kindness. Everything about the mess pinned to his chest insists upon itself, refusing to let Shiro disregard these signs of the success he’s had at the Garrison. Even if he could manage that, the other mourners’ stares and pursed lips would draw Shiro’s attention back to his insignias, when everyone ought to focus on his Grandfather.

When Aunt Satomi lets him go, Shiro darts toward the only place he wants to sit. Without a word, he slips into an empty space up at the front, beside Ryou, his twin brother. Then again, Shiro doesn’t need words when he makes more than enough noise already, banging over the din of muffled conversations as he shoves his bags under the pew. Ryou arches an eyebrow and curls up his long, spidery fingers in his rosary and his strands of black juzu beads.

“Your beret is askew,” he whispers, turning his eyes to their Grandfather’s memorial photograph.

Muttering a quick thanks, Shiro straightens in his seat and tries to fix his cap. Without a reflective surface, the best he can do is guess, and hope, and try not to focus on the differences he thinks he’s spotting between himself and Ryou. Feels like there are more of them than the last time they saw each other, at the Titan-Hyperion mission’s launch. If either of them felt inclined to try it, they probably could not trade places with each other anymore. Ryou’s slighter in the shoulders than Shiro, but he has a softer jawline. The only rough spots on his hands are his callused fingertips, toughened up so he can best handle his violin. Unlike his brother, Ryou’s wearing a crisp black suit, as he’s supposed to do for a wake, and he looks more like their Grandfather, even though Shiro bears the man’s personal name.

Shiro has no honest idea how he looks right now and isn’t sure he wants to know that, either. As long as he has himself together enough to avoid arousing anyone’s concern, it doesn’t matter. When he’s finished adjusting the black beret back, Ryou gives him a shrug and a vague frown. He doesn’t say it outright, but his questions come across: _“How could you wear that thing here, on today of all days, knowing what it signifies to me? If you were going to wear it, then why wouldn’t you show up looking more presentable in it?”_

“I had to change in the airport restroom,” Shiro explains, voice low and head bowed. “I’m sorry, I got here as soon as I could… Earliest flight, and then it got delayed—”

“They should have just asked you to pilot for them,” could be one of their old jokes, except for the depth-of-winter chill in Ryou’s voice. He deadpans, “After all, you can fly anything, right. Even Mom couldn’t have made an emergency landing like you did after your last trip to space.”

“It wasn’t that… It wasn’t like that.” As his cheeks flush warm and something cold writhes around his stomach, Shiro tries to keep his breathing even. “The plane had a freak mechanical problem. One-in-a-million chance of happening. We had to wait for them to get a new—”

“Oh, don’t be modest, Kashi,” Ryou all but drawls. “If you’re going to wear that uniform here, then you should _own_ it instead of—”

“I didn’t have anything else that I could wear, alright?”

Once the words burst out of him, Shiro clamps his hands together and chokes back a groan. Digging his fingertips into his knuckles, he fixes his eyes on the sculpture of Saint Sebastian, over by the altar’s right-hand side. Naked save for the tunic around his trim waist and six-pack abs, Sebastian stand there as stoically as ever. One hand holds three arrows while he clutches his chest with the other, and he throws his head back so that his longish locks splay out behind him. According to what Sister Margaret said when Shiro and Ryou came here for Sunday school as kids, the statue’s expression is one of divine rapture, bliss and joy and ecstasy at being martyred for his love of Jesus Christ.

Dimly, Shiro wishes he knew who created this depiction of the church’s patron saint. He’d kinda like to ask them why their version of self-sacrificing rapture looks like the faces he pulls when he orgasms. But there’s a time and a place, and right now, there’s something else that Shiro needs to handle first, because he owes his brother explanations and he’d rather not have Ryou angry with him. Dragging his thumb along the back of his hand, Shiro calls to mind Grandfather’s old motto, the thing he used to say when Shiro got frustrated with himself for missing a problem on a practice exam or getting stuck on his homework, while racing through normal school, trying to get to the Garrison as early as they’d allow: _“Remember, Kashi, patience yields focus. Patience yields focus… Patience yields focus… Patience. Yields. Focus…”_

He repeats it to himself like counting off the Hail Marys on a rosary, until he centers himself enough to say, “The Garrison’s medical staff thought that I lost too much weight on the Titan-Hyperion mission—”

“You _did_ look particularly thin during the press conference and your interviews.”

Shiro’s face heats up again. Gripping himself tighter, he tries to push through the accusation that he knows Ryou’s keeping to himself: _“You looked thin enough for it to be obvious, despite the makeup, the heavy uniform, and the camera’s tendency to add ten pounds. But any time you got a chance to call, you told our Grandfather, who raised us and loved you and believed in you when no one else did, that everything was fine.”_

“So, I worked with them and put what I lost back on,” Shiro says, hoping some gentleness comes across. Even if he’s being emotionally kicked in the chest, he knows it’s coming from his brother’s own hurt. “Now, I’ve done some extra bulking up. Properly supervised, of course. Commander Iverson wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Your _family_ wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, either.” Ryou casts him a sidelong glance, silently scrutinizes Shiro’s body so closely, Shiro’s skin starts crawling. “Most of said bulk looks like the padded shoulders.”

“In my dress grays, yes. And I’ll probably _never_ fill out a uniform like some shredded, muscular pin-up boy.” Strictly speaking, Shiro doesn’t want to, either. But for now, he shifts in his seat and finishes clarifying things: “I want to have a better physical safety-net for my next mission, whenever that happens. And I’ve gained enough weight that my old suits don’t fit me anymore.”

Ryou hums noncommittally. “At least you made it,” he supposes. “At least the Garrison allowed you that much.”

“They wouldn’t have tried to stop me from coming—”

“Of course not. How could they do such a callous thing to the latest installment in the legacy? To Commander _Iverson’s_ protege?”

“They let people leave for funerals,” Shiro bites out, closing his eyes as if it might make focusing easier. “The Galaxy Garrison isn’t as regimented or regulated as the military, proper. It’s an organization of explorers, scientists, researchers, and potential diplomats, not a prison.”

“I have spare beads and an extra rosary, if you need either.” Seeing Shiro take both out of his jacket pocket, Ryou huffs. “Grandfather insisted on mixing traditions for the wake and the funeral. He knew how much you appreciate both of them.”

“I appreciate both of them because of him.”

“I think Sister Margaret nearly had an aneurysm when I came in to negotiate with her and the new priest about working the Buddhist elements into the wake and tomorrow’s Mass, but… Needs must, I guess. It’s not her funeral.” Ryou shrugs in a way that doesn’t match how prim and tense his voice gets. “The seventh-day memorial service will be at the temple. You _are_ staying around for that, right?”

Shiro nods, because of course he is. He always planned to stay.

But he stiffens at everything his brother isn’t saying but somehow keeps rubbing in his face: _“You should have been here to help me put this together. Funerary arrangements were supposed to be your job, Kashi. You were the closest thing he had to an eldest son, after Mom and Dad died, and putting all of this together was one of your obligations to your family. Notice how no one else from the Garrison came out to mourn him? They don’t care because our grandfather never went into space himself. Why do you think you can find a family among a bunch of people who only value you for how well you can pilot? But when the man who raised you came to die, you weren’t here to put your last waters on his lips.”_

Before Shiro can think of anything to say, Ryou cuts in again with, “He should have told you he was sick. Or allowed me to tell you.”

That hits Shiro like a bolt of lightning. “…What?”

Almost nonchalantly pushing his black hair off his forehead, Ryou says, “He got diagnosed right before you launched for Titan and Hyperion. Said that we couldn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin the mission for you. Then, he thought the landing was too rough and that you needed space. Then, you couldn’t make it home for the holidays, so he didn’t feel he could give you any regrets about pursuing your dreams. And then, and then, and _then_ …”

It might be easier if Ryou would say any of this with vitriol. He’s held his anger back for as long as Shiro can remember, preferring to hiss or drawl or simply go quiet rather than snarl or cry or scream so loud that his neighbors call the cops with a noise complaint. He doesn’t rage like a tempest or burn down forests; he makes entire rooms go cold. Any subtle hints of bitterness or poison out of Ryou would feel right, for the situation. Would feel perfectly deserved, considering where Shiro’s been and how long Grandfather kept the secret of his illness and implicated Ryou in keeping Shiro locked firmly in the dark.

Two-and-a-half years. A little over, even. The Titan-Hyperion launch happened eight months before they made it home. But Shiro never heard a peep, and instead of being furious with him, as he deserves, all Ryou sounds is too tired to be miserable. Too overtaxed to be upset. Too resigned for someone who’s barely twenty-two.

“I would’ve come home,” Shiro whispers. He ducks his chin and can’t look up. He blinks more than he needs to, hopes he won’t start bawling in front of all these people. His hands tremble around his rosary, his prayer beads, and they feel like they might never stop shaking. But Shiro might burn up from the inside if he doesn’t say this. “If I’d known, Ryou? I wouldn’t have left you to… I would’ve come back. I would’ve helped.”

“No, Kashi, you wouldn’t have.” Again, Ryou speaks with almost no emotion whatsoever. And if he were blaming Shiro or making accusations, it might be easier. Shiro could feel hurt but brush it off, then move on without much pause.

Except he nudges his shoulder against Shiro’s and tells him, far too gently, “If you’d known about his cancer, you would have worried. You would’ve tied yourself into a million knots, and worked yourself up, and gotten into your own head too much. You could’ve made yourself sick up around Saturn where you couldn’t have gotten the help you needed. Or you wouldn’t have been able to think on your feet when the landing started going wrong. Or after the mission, you could’ve worked yourself into the ground, trying to be the Garrison’s golden boy _and_ get out here to help our grandfather. Which would’ve been no help for anyone, least of all yourself.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Ryou sighs. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted to have you here for my own sake as much as for his. But if you’d known, I might’ve lost you, too.” He leans toward Shiro’s side without completely slouching on him. “I’m sorry that I helped him lie to you. But you cannot ask me to regret the side-effect of keeping you alive. Selfish or not, I couldn’t have handled losing both of you, and I am not sorry that you’re here. Or that you’re still with us in the existential sense.”

That’s fair, and Shiro agrees that he can’t ask Ryou to regret something like this. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost Ryou, either. Trying to tune out the empty feeling in the center of his chest, Shiro nods and promises that he’s planning to stay alive for a good, long time.

Regardless, he bats Ryou off of his shoulder so he can go pay his respects. Breath hitching in his throat, Shiro blinks down at Grandfather — no, at his _corpse_ — resting on the bed of satin. The old man looks almost nothing like himself, thinned out and pale and so rigid that he could be a department store mannequin. From his face to his hands, folded on his chest and curled around his own rosary and prayer beads, Grandfather has a look to his skin like it’s been crafted out of melted candles. Like maybe the body in the casket was borrowed from a collection of wax sculptures, and Shiro’s real Grandfather is hiding somewhere in this church, waiting to jump out and catch Shiro off his guard.

If that happened, then maybe Grandfather would reveal that all of this was a prank to make Shiro take some time to stop chasing after success at the Garrison. He set a record with how quickly he worked through his training and became an officer. He’s flown multiple missions, even went to Phobos and Deimos when he was still a cadet. He doesn’t _need_ to pursue any of his advanced studies with Commander Iverson, Commander Holt, and Professor Montgomery, but Shiro chooses to do that anyway, so he can give the Garrison his best. Of course Ryou and their Grandfather felt they needed an elaborate, faked death ruse to get him home for once.

But unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. Grandfather is dead. Despite how little he deserves to bear this name, Shiro is their family’s only living Takashi. And whatever can be said for fraternal loyalty — for feeling like they’re all each other has now, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary — as Shiro returns to his brother’s side, he can’t shake the feeling that Ryou would be better off without him.

*** * ***

Takashi Shirogane impresses everyone who meets him, and according to the scuttlebutt, he deserves that overabundance of attention. Before Keith had been in flight school for a week, he’d heard everything about the Galaxy Garrison’s resident golden boy because nobody, from the cadets to the profs to the senior officers, would ever shut their mouths about him.

Takashi Shirogane started flight school at age fourteen, earlier than any cadet in history. He had record-setting test scores and flew official missions before he’d even finished all his training. Annoying Leah From Holt’s Class heard that Shirogane isn’t allowed to sing on campus because his voice is too beautiful for human ears. Pain-In-The-Ass Michael Who Sits Next To Keith In Harris’s Lecture heard that Shirogane contributed to missions outside of saving the Titan-Hyperion landing from disaster but he’s too modest to admit it. His favorite meal at the commissary is the Garrison’s macaroni and cheese. His favorite activities are reading, running, keeping himself sharp in the simulator cabins, and mentoring cadets (no fewer than eight people on Keith’s dormitory hall have claimed that Shirogane helped them with problems of _some_ significance). One time, he met General Dos Santos, the Garrison’s five-star leader, and he told Shirogane that he’s a credit to the younger generation. One time, he wiped sweat off his face with his t-shirt and six people fainted because Shirogane’s abs are just that awesome.

Takashi Shirogane rips the Q sections out of dictionaries because the word, “quit” is not in his vocabulary. Takashi Shirogane never shows his teeth when he smiles because the last time he did, he dazzled someone so hard that they went blind. Takashi Shirogane could punch most of Keith’s classmates in the face and they’d say, _“Thank you, Sir, may I have another.”_ Takashi Shirogane this, Takashi Shirogane that, hey, has anyone mentioned Takashi Shirogane in the past five minutes because God forbid that someone dare allow such things to happen.

Keith doesn’t know why anyone makes such a fuss over some patronizing, vapid, shallow, pretty boy asshole who gets everything he wants handed to him on a fucking silver platter. He didn’t understand this garbage when he got here two-and-a-half years ago, he didn’t understand the extent of it when Shirogane saved the Titan-Hyperion landing, and he sure as shit doesn’t understand things any better now.

He especially doesn’t understand it one Tuesday morning, when Shirogane lumbers into Iverson’s lecture hall, looking like microwaved death and with barely seven minutes to spare before class starts.

Sure, Keith is one of the only five cadets who’s gotten to His Spot already. Fine, the rest of them are likely at the mess hall or rushing over from there. Alright, Commander Iverson hasn’t even opened up his briefcase yet. There is, perhaps, a slight chance that Keith is being something in the vicinity of unfair in his judgments of someone who outranks him.

But usually, Shirogane is the first person in the lecture hall, even before Iverson, and Keith distinctly didn’t see the golden boy’s smug, too-easy smile anywhere at breakfast. He’d remember if he had, because Shirogane refuses to let anyone forget about him. Since Shirogane wasn’t in the mess hall, he _definitely_ should’ve gotten to class before anybody else did.

Perplexingly, Keith isn’t seeing that megawatt, condescending smile now in the classroom, either. As he shuffles over to his desk behind Iverson’s, Shirogane keeps his eyes down. He isn’t slouching enough to break any protocol, probably most people wouldn’t notice. But there’s a distinct droop to his shoulders, even when he sets down his bag — which doesn’t look much bigger or heavier than usual— and when he glances out at the rows of empty seats, he isn’t smiling _at all_. Not even the half-baked smile that he gives people at the start of every class, as if he’s apologizing for the fact that they need to be in the lecture hall this early.

Sighing just loudly enough for Keith to hear it, Shirogane combs his eyes over the places where his and Iverson’s students ought to be. Maybe it’s the lighting making his warm, tawny skin look a shade or two paler than usual, or bringing out what looks like bruise-dark circles underneath his eyes — but the way that his hair flops onto his forehead is distinctly not a product of Keith’s imagination. Normally, Shirogane fluffs the longer front part up or combs it so it doesn’t get too close to his face. Today, it lies over one of his thick, dark brows, skirting low enough that it almost covers up his eye. When he drags his hand back through his bangs, he lets them drop back into place and doesn’t seem to care. As if how he looks doesn’t matter to him in the slightest.

But why would it matter to him? He’s so pretty that practically everyone on campus wants a piece of him, so he’s probably never been hard-up for attention in his entire godforsaken life. Besides that, getting everything handed to him must make Shirogane take it for granted. He doesn’t need to keep his hair perfectly in-line for fear of a superior officer deciding to revoke his access to the simulator cabins outside of classes. He doesn’t need to worry that even the slightest flaw in his posture might make someone accuse him of not taking his placement at the Garrison seriously, or spitting on the opportunity that no one needed to give to him when he’s essentially a hardheaded, good-for-nothing street urchin.

The rest of his appearance only makes the picture ten times worse, if anyone cares what Keith thinks. He squints at the details while Shirogane pinches at the bridge of his nose, tries to take them all in while the beautiful idiot asks Iverson whether or not they need to set up any of the projectors or speakers before the rest of the class gets in. They don’t, apparently, but that’s probably for the best. Between the way his buttons are done up in the wrong holes, the faint stubble that Keith thinks he sees on Shirogane’s annoyingly knife-sharp jawline, and the yawn he muffles behind one of his oversized hands, Keith’s not sure that Shirogane could manage setting up _anything_ right now. It takes all the effort he can summon not to groan or grumble when he knows that Shirogane and Iverson could definitely hear him.

Seriously, though? Shirogane deserves far worse than the furrowed brow and too-gentle frown that Iverson throws his way. The golden boy seems to flinch when he glances up at the overhead fluorescent lights and wobbles slightly before slumping onto the edge of his desk. He was probably up all night drinking, but Iverson isn’t even calling him out on it. He’s sitting there at his desk, thumbing through the stack of graded essays that Shirogane hands him, and pursing his lips as though he’s more concerned with the marks that Shirogane put on things than with how his TA looks like he got half-an-hour of sleep, at most, and had it in a fucking gutter.

Tightening his hold on his tablet’s stylus, Keith stiffens in his seat and crosses his ankles. He has to use one elbow to prop himself up until he feels like his back is straight enough to not attract anyone’s derision. He taps the stylus on his table and tells himself to go over his notes from last class’s lecture — but no matter how much he knows that he should do that, Keith can’t take his eyes off of Shirogane. Forcing himself to bow his head doesn’t last a minute before he’s back to glaring at that walking disaster area who purports himself to be an officer of the Galaxy Garrison, who’s been looking worse and worse for at least four weeks before this without getting called out on fucking _anything_.

_How can you even stand in front of a classroom, looking like that?_ , Keith muses, and would rather like to scream at Shirogane if he could ever get away with it. _How can you piss on all of the opportunities that get doled out your way, regardless of what you’ve done or not to deserve them? Do you have any idea how much some people would kill to have a fraction of what you do, asshole? Do you even care—_

Keith’s thoughts would probably go on. He’s thought even worse things about Shirogane or in his general direction before. But they derail themselves entirely when Shirogane looks back at him. When he pauses in the middle surveying the hall as if this is any normal day, and his gaze stops on Keith.

Keith swallows hard. He snaps into sitting up like someone’s grafted a rod onto his spine. His fingers tighten around his stylus without his complete consent. But why the Hell is his hand trembling? Why won’t it calm down as Keith makes his breaths come in slowly, deeply, as steadily as he can manage? That isn’t fair, and it isn’t _right_. Takashi Shirogane does not intimidate Keith. He cannot earn Keith’s leniency by standing there and looking like a human shipwreck, staring at Keith bemusedly, as if he doesn’t understand something about Keith’s face or the way he’s sitting.

For once, Keith almost regrets his preference for sitting in the front row. Even with the space that he and Shirogane still have between them, Keith can see his eyes far too clearly, now. They’re gray — a few shades darker than the uniform he’s wearing, and softer than should be possible on someone who has shoulders that broad and biceps like Shirogane’s. Something about his eyes is warm, as well. They glimmer as Shirogane looks at Keith, and for a too-long moment, Shirogane seems like he appreciates Keith’s presence.

_Of course he doesn’t appreciate that, he doesn’t even know who you are, not really. Why would he give a single damn about whether or not you’re in class today, stop being stupid, stop acting so fucking desperate, why do you even care what he thinks—_

Keith chides himself silently, gripping onto his stylus so tightly that it digs into his fingers. That pain keeps him grounded, stops him from breaking Shirogane’s stare. Curling his first so tightly that his nails claw at his palm — that also helps to calm Keith down. One of them is going to break off first, either him or Shirogane, and so help Keith God, he isn’t gonna be that guy. Somebody should’ve put Shirogane in his place ages ago already, before he got it in his head that it’s remotely acceptable for a Galaxy Garrison officer to look like such a wreck, _especially_ when he’s supposedly here to help Iverson teach his students.

Taking his deepest breath yet, Keith steels himself. Sets his jaw. Hopes that his hands don’t tremble too much as he goes white-knuckled, both down in his fist and clenching onto his stylus for dear life. He glares back at Shirogane, hopefully enough to make his point without tipping Iverson off and getting Keith chewed out for insubordination.

Whatever goes on in the mess of stretched out cotton balls where Shirogane’s brain should be, he blinks at Keith as if he doesn’t understand when someone doesn’t like him. Furrows his brow as if he’s trying to interpret a message that he doesn’t have the key to decode. He inhales deeply for himself and Keith's breath hitches in his throat.

_Shit_ — this has to be it. Oh God, he glared too long, or too intensely, or otherwise lost track of time, never mind losing track of his own face. Now, Shirogane’s getting ready to tell Iverson to slap Keith with a few demerits and write him up for a failure to show the Garrison-mandated proper respect to people who don’t deserve it, whether they’re his senior officers or not. Even though Keith hasn’t done anything that breaks any _real_ rules. Even though all he’s done is give Shirogane a dirty look and refuse to think that he’s all that everybody claims he is.

Shirogane opens his mouth and Keith holds his breath — but all Shirogane does is _smile_ at him.

Scrunching up his face until it starts to hurt, Keith peers back at the golden boy. At the way he’s curling up his stupidly pretty mouth as if nothing in the entire galaxy is wrong. He musses his hand over his hair, partly like he’s trying to fix it into a more appropriate style for the classroom and partly like he isn’t paying attention. When it droops back onto his forehead, Shirogane does nothing to fix it again. Why even bother playing with it like that, if he isn’t going to make his hair stay in place?

Trying to rein in his scowl before Iverson notices for himself but still refusing to look away from Shirogane’s face, Keith edges his chair up closer to the desk.

Along the back of his neck, Keith’s fine, black hairs stand up on their ends. Underneath his uniform’s sleeves, his skin squirms and wriggles as if he has insects digging around in his veins and muscles. It’s nothing that he hasn’t dealt with before. Happens every time he looks someone else in the eye for too long — but Captain or not, Takashi Shirogane does not deserve the privilege of seeing Keith Sarkance Kogane ever drop his guard. Much less the privilege of seeing him vulnerable or, worst of all possible outcomes, seeing him when he’s _weak_.

Everybody else gives Shirogane everything he fucking wants, but Keith’s always had problems belonging to the subset of, _“Everyone.”_ He gave the Sisters Hell at the orphanage, anytime they tried to discipline the other kids too hard. No prospective foster parents ever wanted to keep him, as soon as he started mouthing off and refusing to accept everything they said as Gospel Truth. Far worse things have tried to take him down than some hungover train-wreck golden boy, so Keith folds his hands up on the desk and trains his eyes on Shirogane as if he’s wearing a brace that won’t let him turn his head.

Keith might not come from much. He might be here on a scholarship and maybe he’ll never amount to half as much as Takashi Shirogane will, never mind that they started from completely different points. But Keith never backs down, if he can help it, and he isn’t going to start now, just because some simpering pretty boy thinks that Keith owes him more respect.

As if there’s anything amusing about this situation, Shirogane quirks an eyebrow at him. When Keith doesn’t back down, Shirogane huffs softly and gives him a nod that’s borderline approving. His smile doesn’t falter, not entirely. Maybe he pulls it back somewhat, but because Shirogane is apparently intent on being the most confusing living being in the universe this morning, his expression still seems more or less completely genuine. There’s a new spark to it as well, something that seems to say, _“Oh, so you think that you’ve got spirit, huh, cadet? You really think that you can stand up to me like that?”_

There has to be some kind of iron hidden behind the delicacy in his eyes, too, because Shirogane refuses to turn them away from Keith. Regardless of how he looks like he could too easily start crying, he keeps his eyes locked onto Keith as if they’re getting in some practice in the shooting gallery and Keith’s taken the place of Shirogane’s target. He might be intent enough on winning to make this staring contest ten times more challenging. The thought of that makes Keith’s stomach turn more than the so-called eggs that the mess hall dishes up each morning, makes him itch with the desire to prove that he isn’t the inept, mewling coward that Shirogane no doubt thinks he is, pegging Keith for such an easy mark.

Fortunately for both of them, Iverson clears his throat and calls Shirogane over to his desk.

As soon as the golden boy turns his back, Keith covers his mouth with one hand, hopes that it muffles his sigh of relief enough to avoid Shirogane’s notice. Other students are coming in, now, fumbling to their seats and racketing around the lecture hall. Iverson doesn’t even cast a sidelong glance Keith’s way, which means that serious repercussions are less likely to find him.

Since Keith’s probably in the clear, he makes himself look down at his notes. None of the words want to make any sense, on the heels of _whatever the fuck_ that moment was with Shirogane, just now. If it even _was_ a moment. Despite the way his head is swimming — despite the way that he can’t shake off the image of Shirogane’s soft gray eyes, fixed on him, with that gleam like it was a miracle he didn’t break down crying — Keith skims over his notes anyway. Doing that it’s more responsible and it might get his mind off the impossible task of trying to understand why Takashi Shirogane just looked at him as if Keith is actually important.

Anyway, Keith has other things to worry about than whatever’s making Shirogane act so weird. He has his annual physical tomorrow, he needs to get ready for Iverson’s next exam, and the golden boy has people lined up for miles to stroke his ego if he needs that. Whatever his issue might be, it’s none of Keith’s business, so who cares.

*** * ***

Two months after Grandfather’s funeral, Shiro can’t remember the last time he’s gotten a good night’s sleep. Last night, he managed to pass out in his bed instead of on his desk for once. It was a welcome change, except for the way that he woke up every couple hours, then perpetually had trouble getting back to sleep. Shiro yawned his way through breakfast this morning, half-asleep, and aside from making sure to get two huge glasses of water, he doesn’t remember what he ate or how much or any of it. He only managed to get through leading his classes by the grace of God and potentially heart attack-inducing amounts of coffee.

If there were any reason for him to be feeling like everything in his life is slipping through his fingers, then Shiro might not mind it quite so much. Even if he still hated it — which he suspects he definitely would — he might be better able to endure it because at least there’d be an explanation for why practically nothing in his life feels like it works properly anymore. Not that anybody’s noticed anything because Shiro can go through the motions as well as ever. Commander Holt and Professor Montgomery don’t even know what sort of “personal reasons” called him out to California, and they’ve commended Shiro more often than usual for how much his studies with them have been progressing. When Shiro’s gotten a chance to call Ryou, he’s said that everything is fine and hasn’t roused any of his brother’s suspicions.

About the only time when Shiro feels _right_ anymore is out on the track, getting his laps in during his free-time. Once upon a time, he didn’t believe in _feeling the burn_. He liked working out well enough, but that particular idiom was too ridiculous a phrase for him to take it seriously.

Lately, though, that so-called burn offers about the only thing that makes Shiro feel like he can get a handle on his breathing, like he isn’t a completely hopeless case and doomed to falling into the abyss that seems to follow him everywhere.

Sometimes, he runs first thing in the morning, before the heated, desert June gets too blistering, because he usually isn’t sleeping anyway. Other times, he runs at night, after sunset when it’s started cooling off but before the cadets’ curfew rolls around, in case the RAs at their dormitories need any extra hands on deck.

Right now, because Shiro doesn’t have any classes to get through after lunch on Thursdays, he’s ignoring the fact that he hates this kind of late afternoon heat, how much he hates the way that it makes him start sweating faster and more profusely, and despite all of the objections that his brain tries to throw at him, Shiro’s pushing himself through an extra run. He half-assed his way through warm-up stretches after cutting out of the mess hall without really focusing on them or getting them done right. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention to them, but he warmed up before he ran this morning too, so probably won’t make that much difference.

Unfortunately for Shiro’s ability to clear his head, he doesn’t have the track to himself for long. Cadets come out, looking for a chance to pound the polyurethane for themselves. Other cadets sit up in the bleachers, watching their friends, or reading out in the sunlight. Sometimes, he glances up at the seats, looking for anyone he recognizes — but even the faces that Shiro knows he knows don’t properly register for him. Don’t help him recognize who the people with those faces are. He blinks at some of them while running, furrows his brow at others when he slows down enough to hit his water-bottle for a drink, but he can’t place any of their names or details about why he recalls their faces. It kills him, which in turn makes Shiro push himself harder, because he knows he should be able to at least pull up their freaking _names_.

After he’s already been out on the track for an hour or so, and spent almost all of it going and going without pause, two of the other officers from Shiro’s class come run their own private race. They don’t care about the other people out on the track, simply going at it with each other for the sheer joy of running and trying to beat each other. That slows them down, though. In the same time that it takes Shiro to get in eight laps of his own, they only manage to elbow themselves through three. He rolls his eyes when they decide to call it a day after that.

After seven more laps, Shiro pauses properly so he can put in his headphones and turn on some music, in the hopes of drowning out the noise around him. Giving himself more room to breathe, because everyone else around the track will feel further away from him.

Idly, he considers putting on the new tracks that Ryou’s sent him, recordings of songs that he’s writing for himself and wanted input on, even though he knows that Shiro’s ability to criticize music is hindered by his moderately limited vocabulary and the fact that he has almost no ability to point at the details of any given song, even when he’s clear-headed while listening to them. As far as running music goes, Ryou’s pieces would be better than a funeral march or a Gregorian chant. They are not, however, nearly as good as the high-energy pop music that people hardly ever expect Shiro to enjoy. Aside from having slower tempos than Shiro likes when he’s out running, Ryou’s music isn’t loud enough to make Shiro forget about everyone who’s gathered around the track.

With his tunes pounding in his ears, Shiro can easily push himself ten times as intensely, make himself run even harder. No, it’s not the same thing as running with no one else around. Yes, Shiro has to account for other people and try to dodge around them as his heart races, his chest heaves, and his face and neck heat up, coating themselves in sweat. Shiro’s finally out of water before too long, which should probably be a call to stop — but when Shiro glances up at the bleachers again, he recognizes the person who his eyes land on.

Granted, it’d be pretty difficult to forget about Cadet Kogane. For one thing, so much about him defies all semblance of logical sense. In class or in the corridors or even in the mess hall, Kogane has some of the most rigid posture that Shiro’s ever seen around the Garrison, and he _always_ has his uniform and hair together. Yet, as Shiro runs past him for the second time (or maybe for the third? but honestly, who’s counting?), Kogane sprawls out against some of the lower bleachers with his legs splayed at wide angles as if he’s stretching without any apparent discomfort on his part. He has the sleeves of his orange-and-cream jacket rolled up. With the buttons undone, he reveals how much it hangs around his slender torso and tight black t-shirt. Unbound by the dress code, he fixes nothing when his black hair gets ruffled by the breezes that roll through. Kogane seems more annoyed that the wind rustles the pages of his weathered-looking paperback.

For another thing, Cadet Kogane isn’t like practically everyone else at the Galaxy Garrison. He doesn’t have as bad an attitude as some of the other Garrison legacies — the ones like Bell, like Shepard and Whitesel and McKay, the ones who Shiro would prefer not to associate with — but Cadet Kogane doesn’t bend over backwards to lick boot, either. Whenever Shiro’s dealt with him in Iverson’s class or in the corridors or around the simulator cabins, he’s barely restrained himself from snapping at Shiro. He’s called Shiro out before, only tacking a sharp, quick, _“Sir”_ on right at the end, so that he technically isn’t in the wrong or speaking out of turn. He isn’t cold, Cadet Kogane, but he has the demeanor of someone who doesn’t suffer fools.

Whatever his deal is, Shiro doesn’t really know. How can he, when he and Cadet Kogane don’t deal with each other much outside of class? Still, Kogane treats Shiro infinitely better than the fake smiles and phony respect that Shiro gets the other cadets and most of his fellow officers.

God, though, Shiro needs to focus. Lest he allow himself to get too distracted by Kogane — never mind letting it happen when all that the cadet has done is sit in the bleachers and read a book — Shiro turns up the volume on his music. He shores up all the resolve that he can muster and tries to run faster, harder, as much as he can possibly manage without passing out where people might see him doing it.

His breaths are getting shorter, shallower. His lungs don’t protest _that_ much, though, so really: how bad can it be if he presses on until they do?

His legs burn, the way he likes, but it isn’t _nearly_ good enough. Shiro could be doing so much better. He could be throwing himself into this run so much harder, no matter that he’s already been at it for so long. He needs to keep going, _needs_ to keep this up until he feels like his body is on fire. Then, and only then, will Shiro manage to feel like anything is within his grasp. It’s worked like that since he got back from California — from the wake, and the funeral, and the memorial service where Ryou finally cried against Shiro’s shoulder and Shiro didn’t know if he felt anything — so why would anything suddenly different now, just because part of him wants so badly to give up on what Shiro needs to do so he can pay attention to Cadet Kogane instead?

A few more laps — Shiro thinks? It feels like it’s been a few, but seriously, who can tell anymore how many times Shiro’s gone around the track or hasn’t? — and he vaguely considers giving up for the day. Most of the other people on the track are petering out and heading in their own directions. Which should mean that Shiro’s freed up to run by himself, to really get at the kind of burn he wants — but his legs wobble every time that he slows down, and some part of him pipes up with the notion that maybe, having no idea how long he’s been out here is a sign that he should cool down and go back inside.

As he’s entertaining that idea more seriously, he rounds a corner and finds himself looking at Cadet Kogane again. He’s watching Shiro run, or it feels like he is. Feels like he has those intense, blue-violet eyes turned on Shiro. Like he’s zeroing in on everything about his speed, his form, his white t-shirt and the stains of sweat making it cling to his chest like nothing known to humankind could pry the fabric off of Shiro.

A shiver courses up Shiro’s spine, and something that feels like being thrust, headfirst, into an ice-bath. Maybe it’s the thought that he’s running _for_ somebody and being judged for that. Or maybe it’s the way that Cadet Kogane tends to look at him, the way that he always looks at Shiro as if protocol is the only reason why he doesn’t cuss Shiro out for _something_. For a moment, Shiro feels like his heart stops dead, like he has an empty space where that organ is supposed to be.

But as he lets himself slow— as he allows his feet stumble into a pace more akin to jogging and tries to make himself take slower, deeper breaths, like he would when properly cooling down after a workout— Shiro’s heart-rate spikes again. His head spins and a haze of questions smash into him, each one clamoring for Shiro’s attention. _How can you start lagging like this now? Why are you giving up? Is that what your Grandfather would have wanted for you? Did he raise you to be a quitter? Where is your resolve, how can you properly respect his memory if you act like this in the face of a challenge? It doesn’t even hurt that much yet, you whining whelp, and you know you could do so much better—_

Shiro’s stomach wrenches, beats against the inside of his torso, threatens to either plummet or rip its way right out of him.

Worst of all — or maybe best — Cadet Kogane openly rolls his eyes. He flips his hair back off his forehead and he _smirks_.

That confirms it. Definitely. Cadet Kogane is _looking at Shiro_. There’s nowhere else that he could be looking.

He has his face pointed in Shiro’s direction, and he’s acting like he sometimes does in class, usually right before he questions the way that Shiro or Commander Iverson explained and (in his mind) misrepresented the latest concept they’re trying to discuss. Currently protected by the physical distance between them and plausible deniability, Cadet Kogane is scoffing in exact way that Shiro deserves to hear.

Cadet Kogane is completely in the right, as well. If Shiro’s knees insist on quivering, then he must push through it. He’s gotten too many undeserved honors, both for people praising accomplishments that were not that special and for simply being a Shirogane at the Garrison. Giving up now would prove that Shiro hasn’t earned anything that. Despite the dull pounding in his head, Shiro drags in a breath that does nothing to steady his nerves, but it rekindles Shiro’s resolve like nothing else has done so far, today. The unspoken challenge smacks into Shiro as if Cadet Kogane had thrown that book and hit him in the face, and something flares up inside of Shiro’s chest. He cannot back down now.

Simply not an option. If Cadet Kogane is watching him so closely — if he’s scrutinizing, intent on holding Shiro accountable and taking him to task in ways that almost no one else would dare — then Shiro has to keep running. Has to keep it up until Cadet Kogane feels satisfied, since Shiro’s own satisfaction with his efforts might be as make-believe as any Prince Charming fantasies that Shiro’s ever let himself entertain in private.

He throws himself back into things. Runs like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him alive. Listens to the screaming in his calves and thighs, the cramped and scorching sensation like Shiro’s got actual fire coursing through his veins. Even if Kogane picks up that paperback again, Shiro needs to do this. Needs to prove why he belongs here at the Garrison. Why he’s nothing like the other legacy officers who sit back and rest on their predecessors’ laurels without doing anything for themselves. Why he _isn’t_ a mistake.

Shiro pulls himself through another lap. Then another. Finishing yet another — feeling like he might’ve managed it more quickly, even — he catches Cadet Kogane still staring and shoots a smirk back at him. Hopes that it doesn’t look _too_ smug. That would only defeat the entire purpose of _not_ aligning himself with the other legacies.

But Shiro’s heart flutters like it might give out on him when Kogane doesn’t smirk back.

Granted, it’s getting harder to make out his exact expressions. Although the Garrison fixed up Shiro’s eyes before the first mission that he flew as a copilot, things are getting slightly fuzzy around the edges, as if he has cotton balls in his periphery. As if he might be tearing up, except for how, blessedly, he can’t be. His eyes don’t sting and he doesn’t have the thick, blocked-up feeling in his throat that somehow always finds him on the rare occasions when he cries. Shiro should be safe on that count, for now.

Which settles Shiro’s mind, he guesses, but does nothing to solve the problem of Cadet Kogane. From here, he seems to furrow his brow. He looks confused by what he’s seeing? Probably not concerned? But definitely somewhat lost? But that doesn’t make sense either. He’s the brightest cadet in his class. Sometimes difficult in class but he’s gifted, and he works hard, and he smokes out everybody in the simulators. What could _possibly_ be baffling Kogane about watching Shiro run? Nothing about this scene is noteworthy. Absolutely nothing.

It can’t be anything that Shiro’s doing. Can it? No, of course not. Because Shiro feels perfectly fine, and he can prove it, too.

As Shiro keeps going, Kogane slips down to the lowest row in the stands, the one that’s closest to the ground. He drapes his arms over the safety rail, leaning toward the track and craning his neck. He locks his gaze on Shiro, and almost looks like he might be trembling. Maybe like he’s wrinkling his nose. He opens his mouth. Shuts it as if he’s considering something first. Shiro rounds the corner, and Kogane shuts his eyes. Clenches his jaw. Opens up his mouth again—

“ _Shirogane!_ ”

A stern, barking voice behind him cuts through everything else — _Commander Iverson_.

Trying to slow his pace is the only reason Shiro doesn’t groan at this interruption. At how he’s forced Iverson’s hand and made him come out to all this way. Rounding the corner once more, finishing this last lap, he spots his mentor standing by the bench where Shiro tossed his empty water bottle. He has his arms folded over his broad chest and he scowls as if Shiro’s due to get chewed out for this. Or possibly for something else. Does it really matter what he’s done to earn Iverson’s displeasure? Fact is Shiro’s earned it, and some part of him hopes like Hell this hurts.

As he lurches to an unsteady halt, Shiro tries to snap to proper attention and salute. Strains both to straighten up his back enough and to keep his hand still. As he holds it to his brow, his fingers won’t stop quivering. Just like the feeling that wriggles down Shiro’s torso, his legs, the back of his neck. While his face and chest flush hot, something cold slams into his stomach. Like swallowing ice or getting smacked with ten tons of snow. Despite his body trying so hard to betray him, though, Shiro pushes himself up as rigidly as he can. Pulls his stomach in tight and keeps his shoulders back.

All this earns him is a heavy sigh and a gruff, “At ease, son.”

Without another word, Commander Iverson arches the brow over his good eye and motions for Shiro to pick up his bottle and then come along. Not that Shiro has an option but to obediently trudge along behind Iverson. Not that he _would_ argue, if he could. Heading to Iverson’s office for a chewing-out makes sense. It’d give them relative privacy and all the time that Iverson might need. Yet, as they pass behind one of the equipment sheds, Iverson holds them up. He catches Shiro by the elbow and tugs him to a stop.

Shiro frowns, glances around them. They’re in the shed’s longest shadow. The only other people around are several meters off, at least. Nobody’s within earshot, either. But the latter point could change very easily, once Commander Iverson starts laying in to him. True, he rarely _intends_ to forego volume control so much, but Iverson _can_ get rather loud, regardless of what he means or doesn’t.

As Iverson takes a deep breath, Shiro folds his hands behind his back. Forces himself back into his best posture. Readies for the litany of disapproval that he’s earned. Except he ends up blinking uncomprehendingly at a silver hypospray injector that Iverson takes out of his pocket. Then, at Iverson himself. Then, back at the hypospray.

“What is… Are you… Sir?”

Iverson tilts his head to the side and crooks a finger, by way of telling Shiro to do the same and expose his neck.

“It’s only an electrolyte replenisher, son,” he explains when Shiro frowns at him. “McKay came to my office, said you’d been out there running since lunch. You’re barely on your own two feet, Shiro. You look like Hell. I didn’t see anything but your water bottle, by the bench or in the trash. Smart money says that you need this right now. More than you might want anyone to know. I didn’t want to administer a dose in front of them.”

That all sounds reasonable. Even if it didn’t, Shiro couldn’t argue. He winces slightly as the needle nips his neck, then sighs. Any relief from this will come slowly, but the Garrison’s doctors and medical scientists have reasons for making their supplements in work the ways they do.

Dimly, Shiro _knows_ that he knows these reasons. He’s gone over them countless times, for his own benefit and periodically explaining things to the cadets — but now that he isn’t running, Shiro’s entire body feels heavy. Like he’s had shackles attached to his wrists and ankles, ten-ton weights strapped onto his shoulders, and the. His head’s swamped up in something foggy and muggy that refuses to let him remember _why_ the hypospray formulas have to work how they do. Shiro buries his face in his palm, pinches the bridge of his nose. His skin is warm and sweat-caked, and as he tries to clear his head, he drags his fingertips through what feels like grime. Even though all he’s doing right now is breathing — even though that feels like all he _can_ do — Shiro feels slightly sick.

Bogged down though he is, Shiro tries to explain himself. Tries to ask when Iverson’s going to start laying into him like he deserves. His heart pounds harder and faster again, rushing like it’s running around the track itself. Nothing calms down within him until a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, rests there like a ballast.

Commander Iverson’s frown is oddly gentle. His voice is tight and soft as he asks, “Shiro, what’s going on?”

It takes Shiro a moment, but he manages to say, “I went for a run. I lost track of time.”

He hates how quiet and weak his voice sounds. How it trembles as if struggling not to fade away. How each breath brings dread along with it, creeping into Shiro’s mind, trailing cold fingers down his spine, threatening him with the possibility of blacking out and fainting on Commander Iverson if Shiro doesn’t force himself to do better.

Arching both eyebrows so high, they nearly jump off his forehead, Iverson squeezes Shiro’s shoulder. “What _really_ happened out there, son.”

“Cadet Kogane was watching me,” Shiro mutters before he realizes what he’s thinking. “Thought about stopping myself before I caught him looking, but? Then, I wanted to… I don’t know, push myself? Keep going. See how long I could.”

“But _why_?” Iverson doesn’t beg. But he edges closer to it than Shiro’s ever heard him do. “What was it supposed to accomplish?”

Shiro shrugs and shakes his head and supposes that he doesn’t know. A lie, sure, but for now, it’s the best that he can do. If he were up to working at full capacity, Shiro still couldn’t explain his rationale to Iverson. Not without burdening him unfairly. Dumping problems on his shoulders that are not Commander Iverson’s to deal with. Never mind how they shouldn’t be problems in the first place because there’s nothing wrong. Nothing that merits any special consideration, anyway.

Sighing, Iverson turns Shiro around. He shepherds Shiro back toward the officers’ dorms with one hand resting between Shiro’s shoulder-blades. Although he keeps his voice down, he makes it clear what he expects Shiro to do when they get there: clean himself up. Make sure some to run the water cold for at least _some_ part of his shower. Stretch, but it’s up to Shiro how he wants to do it; he knows his body and his best cool-down routines better than Iverson does. Keep an eye on how he’s feeling and come to Iverson’s quarters if he thinks he needs another hypospray or an escort to the infirmary.

“We are not _supposed_ to bring food back from the commissary or let any of you younger officers do it either,” he says, when they’re in the elevator and heading up to Shiro’s floor. “Might start giving the cadets questionable ideas. Encourage them to ignore proper decorum. But under the current circumstances, I would look the other way if you asked someone to do that for you. I could get Holt and Montgomery to ignore it for you, too. If you were to ask someone for that kind of help tonight.”

_Don’t worry. I won’t_ , Shiro muses, but doesn’t say aloud. Hazy or not, he knows better than to say something like that. For one thing, it would likely make him sound some kind of crazy, and Commander Iverson might feel a need to make any concerns that he might have official, which would, in turn, be incredibly tedious for both of them.

For another thing, biting the hand that feeds you definitely violates the Garrison’s protocol about etiquette and respect.

Outside of Shiro’s single room, Iverson takes him by the shoulder again. He looks Shiro in the eye while telling him, “Son, I know that you’re going through a rough patch right now. I know that you don’t want to talk about losing your grandfather, but…” Another squeeze, and Iverson’s good eye narrows in concern that makes gooseflesh crop up on Shiro’s arms. “You aren’t alone, Shiro. You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” Shiro nods, more by reflex than anything. “Understood, sir.”

Which isn’t a lie or a way to be more quickly excused so that he can get to his shower already. Shiro perfectly understands what Commander Iverson means to say. In theory, it’s a great idea. It might help clear things up for other people, who have genuine problems. It could even help Shiro, if he had anything that he _needed_ help with, rather than a tangled heap of nonsense to sort out for himself.

In practice, however, the notion falls apart. Without his Grandfather, there are only three people who Shiro can (more or less, most likely) trust: one of them just called for the cold shower that Shiro helps himself to. Another one isn’t on campus, wants nothing to do with the Garrison, and is the biggest reason why Shiro didn’t want to go on the upcoming mission to check in with the research droids that the Garrison has on Thalassa, one of Neptune’s moons.

As for the third, Shiro’s barely spoken to him without the veneer of Garrison decorum between them. That’s probably a good reason not to hand him trust, but Cadet Kogane isn’t fake or full of shit. In all likelihood, he hates Shiro and that’s fair enough. But if that’s so, at least Kogane won’t lie about it. Under the ice-cold water, Shiro lets his mind wander back to Cadet Kogane’s eyes. Blue, or maybe violet — Shiro can’t remember, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to tell — with something warm behind them, even when he’s glaring at Shiro in front of a jam-packed lecture hall or shooting him a tacit challenge in the form of a hard, knife’s edge smirk.

Still, it’s better than the forced smiles and affected shows of appreciation that Shiro usually gets. Being genuinely loathed for any reason is better than being lied to by people who only want the Golden Boy façade, not the person Shiro really might be.

*** * ***

Eight weeks after his physical with the Garrison’s medical staff — seven weeks after his first appointment with one of the dietitian/counselors, and six weeks after a follow-up with one of the doctors — Keith doesn’t feel like he’s gained any meaningful amount of weight or muscle mass.

Which honestly isn’t fair, if you ask him. He’s stuck to their diet plans, followed them to the letter, no matter how much he’d rather eat literal dirt than most of what you get from the Garrison’s commissary. He’s meticulously kept track of what he’s eaten and suffered through humiliating further appointments where Professor Marsh, the dietitian, scrutinizes his logs. He’s taken the supplements that the doctors gave him, traded in some of his cardio for more strength and resistance training, and done everything that the people with the proper certifications have told him to do. All this, so he won’t end up too scrawny to qualify for actual missions when he finishes his training, and Keith hasn’t gotten hardly anywhere.

It’s almost enough to make him consider asking Shirogane for help.

“Almost” being the operative term. Things have not gotten so desperate that Keith’s gonna let the Golden Boy into his world — into his entire life — like that. He’s already sucked it up and discussed all his potential weaknesses with the Garrison’s medical and support staff. If Keith doesn’t play ball by their rules, they could get it in their heads that he might not actually be up to interstellar travel and keep him from going into space. Shirogane, on the other hand, is a spoiled meat-head pretty boy who Keith doesn’t need to put up with, outside of lectures or ever being made to work together. He can solve his own problems.

Still, Keith’s considered asking. Hard not to, when his current issue might be one of the only things that Shirogane’s qualified to help anybody out with. When he got back from Titan and Hyperion, he’d thinned out far too much, all sharp angles and hollows that seemed worrisomely deep. Despite the Garrison chefs’ best efforts at facilitating healthier space travel, this remains a potential side-effect. Extended exposure to microgravity strains the human body. A malfunctioning artificial gravity generator can, if anything, be even worse. Both options can easily get into a royal cluster-fuck when combined with the mechanisms that enable faster-than-lightspeed travel. If there’s something off about the rations, or something that an individual member of a mission needs and isn’t getting nutritionally, then dropping weight like Shirogane did can be the least of someone’s worries, up in space.

As time went on, the impossible task became ignoring Shirogane’s progress as he bulked up again. Most of the other cadets still found him beautiful even with the wolfish, hungry look that the last mission left him with. Keith guesses they weren’t wrong, if you’re into self-satisfied, patronizing pretty boys. Regardless, the gossip skyrocketed as Shirogane regained the color in his cheeks, hit the gym, and earned his technically impressive musculature. That physique might be the only thing that he’s ever had to work for in his life, but Shirogane did bust his ass for it. Keith saw him around the weights and track often enough to give him that.

None of which, however, means that Keith has need of Shirogane’s help. If the golden boy can bulk up on his own, then so can Keith.

Slipping into the gym on Sunday morning, skulking over to the equipment, Keith pauses to tie his hair back. It might be getting on the lengthy side. But on the other hand, as long as it doesn’t obstruct Keith’s vision or get in his way, then he doesn’t need to cut it. He isn’t violating any of the Garrison’s rules by letting it grow out, and Keith likes having something loose to play with. Helps him focus, when sweat’s not gluing his hair to the back of his neck.

Rather more attention-demanding than Keith’s hair — even more than the threat of it getting in his face when he wants to be working — are the faint noises that he makes out as he tightens the elastic on his ponytail. Elsewhere in the gym, somebody’s huffing and smacking into something thick. One of the punching bags, no question. Keith knows the mix of sharp cracks and dull thuds. He knows the way that the blows come in quick, bursting, flurries, then abruptly stop so whoever’s going at the bag can rest. He knows the way that sneakers drag and jump on the pads that line the gym’s sparring floors.

Sounds a lot like the way that Keith handles the bags himself, when he’s in the mood.

As he goes through his warm-up stretches and his push-ups, Keith tries to keep his breathing steady, tries to get himself used to the other person’s racket. Few things get on Keith’s nerves as much as not being able to tune out the people he has to share space with around here. Remembering that they’re around comes with the tacit threat of someone deciding that Keith’s presence is an invitation to come stick their nose into his workout. Throws him off without fail, every single time it’s happened, which is practically every time that Keith’s been in the gym.

By the time he’s pounding a quick, light jog out of a treadmill, he finds that going better than he expected. For one thing, they work the bag in a reliable rhythm, easy to pick out and settle into as if Keith is using it himself. As soon as he identifies the pattern — smacking jolts that rush to meet their target, heavier thuds with more time between them and sometimes a sound like the punching bag gets grabbed, rubber soles bouncing around the pads while someone struggles to rein their breaths in and make them come deeper, more slowly — Keith can anticipate what’s coming. None of it catches him off-guard.

For another thing, there’s something like comfort in hearing Whoever-The-Hell-It-Is wail on the heavy bag as if their life depends on it. Not that Keith wishes misery on anybody, because that’s a dick move if he’s ever seen one. Still, it’s almost nice that someone else around here knows how it feels to need a release so badly.

When he drops onto one of the weight benches, though, Keith wishes he could retract something that he didn’t say aloud. Wishes he could banish all semblance of those thoughts from his head forever.

Curling his hands around his loaded barbell, Keith rolls his eyes and grumbles wordlessly, since it’s he can get away with that show of disrespect right now. Nobody’s paying attention to him, so nobody can take offense or chew Keith out for anything. Certainly not the person who’s making Keith thump his head against the bench. No, he’s too preoccupied with his own shit, as per his usual. Too distracted by whatever he thinks he’s chasing. Too wrapped up in whatever vaguely thought-adjacent processes go on inside his spoiled, effectively empty skull.

Of course, the one time Keith thinks somebody at the gym might get him — the _one time_ he lets himself entertain any ideas that someone at the Garrison might _understand_ his feelings about anything — his hopes have to careen into Shirogane.

His presence offers Keith reason enough to follow the golden boy’s lead, for once. Ignoring him is Keith’s best option. Besides, Keith doesn’t have a spotter or anyone he’d trust enough to ask, so he needs to give all his attention to his reps. Needs to focus on getting them exactly right and minding his body’s signals so that he doesn’t overtax himself and end up in the infirmary. With his luck, dropping either the ball or the barbell would leave Keith smarting enough that he lost the ability to get there on his own power. If Keith let that happen, then he’d be forced to demean himself and rely on Shirogane. He’d need to lean against the asshole’s side, allow Shirogane to help carry him since Keith might exacerbate his (thankfully still-)hypothetical injuries by trying to get out of the gym by himself.

Worse, because Keith rarely gets a break, probably everyone would see them and think that Keith can’t handle anything himself.

His resolve to completely ignore Shirogane wavers as Keith goes through his reps. By now, most people would’ve given up on the punching bag. Or finished with it, in the terms they’d likely use. But when Keith settles the barbell into its rest for the final time, he frowns at the off-white ceiling and the sound of Shirogane thumping on the bag. Pushing some loose hair off his face, Keith squints at the corner where Shirogane’s working. Even from here, he makes out the flush to Shirogane’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat, glistening on his warm-toned, brown forehead. More of the stuff stains the armpits of his thin white t-shirt, which makes sense. Somewhat less explicably, as he adjusts his black padded gloves, he hunches his shoulders like a cat who wants to look bigger in the face of a threat.

Clearly, Shirogane’s earned a rest — and yet, he keeps beating on the bag like it owes him something. Keeps taking swings with precision that briefly seems superhuman. More so than the way he’s still going strong after however long he’s been at this.

Stretching out his back, Keith wonders if Shirogane’s tan has gotten darker lately. If he felt like asking, he could find several people who’d have opinions and so-called evidence to back them up. But Keith doesn’t want to start a debate about something that probably doesn’t matter. He’s just curious about how much time Shirogane’s been spending on the track since that day when Iverson had to drag him off.

Not that it’s any of Keith’s business, he supposes as he relocates to the chest press machine. He doesn’t even need an answer. He’s simply curious, and as long as he keeps it to himself, no one can hold that against Keith.

Likewise, it’s neither his business nor his duty to keep an eye on Shirogane. If the golden boy feels like pushing himself past the point of what normal people consider safety, then he has a ton of people who could come and intervene for him. He collects friends and admirers in a way that Keith will never in his life be capable of. Since Keith belongs to neither of those groups, he isn’t obligated to care about anything that Shirogane feels like doing to himself. No matter how absurd Keith thinks it is. No matter how stupid and unnecessary it might be. No matter how Shirogane groans as he lands another heavy, pushing blow on his bag, then doesn’t stop it from knocking into his stomach.

The fact that the chest press machine is closer to the hanging bags is incidental. Keith isn’t _spying_ ; he’s observing.

For a long moment, it seems like Shirogane might call it a day. Might stop throwing punches, if not turn in from the gym entirely. One more round of pounding on the bag passes so quickly, Keith could get whiplash. As he slouches toward his knees and cranes his neck, Keith bites down a gasp of his own. Grunting like what he really wants to do is scream, Shirogane kicks the bag hard enough to make Keith flinch. The chain rattles like it’s in the hands of a poltergeist. On its way back down, the bag slams into Shirogane’s chest again, but as he grabs it with both hands, his face screws up in annoyance more than anything else Keith can pick out.

With a sharp huff, he shoves the thing away. This time, he catches it before it hits him. Two more rounds of that, and on the third, Shirogane punches the bag instead of catching it or letting himself get smacked. He grouses into the impact. Winces as his fist hits the bag. Sighs deeply when the bag hits him back again — but none of this seems remotely proportional to how much force he’s putting behind his swings. More obvious reactions should be spelling themselves out all over him. Either Shirogane has legitimately superhuman pain resistance, or he’s wearing some damn good gloves.

But he stills, after that. Barely reacts as the bag bumps against his shoulder. Doesn’t pause from tearing off his gloves and throwing them down to the mat. Stripped down to the thin wraps around his wrists and knuckles, Shirogane ruffles both hands over the long parts of his stupid undercut. His fingertips gleam with sweat, which he wipes on his t-shirt, leaving damp streaks down his stomach. As Shirogane stands there, near-silently working kinks out of his back and neck, his trembling shoulders seem smaller than Keith would’ve guessed. Broad, but not nearly as much as his uniform leads Keith to believe. Shirogane looks leaner about the torso, too. With the ragged, wolfish way he’s breathing, the rise and fall of his chest looks smoother and more fluid than it should be, and his shoulders twitch like he wants nothing more than to resume hitting something.

Swallowing thickly, Keith wishes Shirogane would either move on or go back to hitting the bag like a man possessed. Getting to see his body at rest like this makes the hair prick up on Keith’s arms and the back of his neck. It’s like that day at the track all over again. Whatever Keith thinks about the Garrison’s precious, spoiled golden boy, something about this situation isn’t right. Something about _Shirogane himself_ is about as far from right as it’s possible to get — which is unnerving on its own, given how allegedly perfect he’s supposed to be. Never mind how looking at Shirogane makes Keith’s insides writhe in hot, shameful guilt for wanting to simply continue hating him when that’s probably kicking down.

Under the gym’s glaring fluorescent lights, the bruise-dark rings beneath Shirogane’s eyes demand Keith’s attention. From the look of it, Shirogane’s barely gotten enough sleep to stay alive. He heaves each breath as if drawing them in takes so much effort that he could die from it. Rubbing at his wrists and knuckles, Shirogane doesn’t seem to notice how much he’s shaking. Keith sees the tremors in his arms and hands from here but Shirogane keeps kneading at his wrists, failing to hide how he cringes at how tightly he grips himself.

Keith shouldn’t stare. He’d hate anybody zeroing in on the details of his appearance like that, were he in Shirogane’s position. But he can’t look away. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash, waiting to see what Shirogane might do next. Lingering on him as he hesitates there, as he draws in breath after badly fraying breath — it’s like peeling the paint off the _Mona Lisa_ and finding a different painting, instead of just an empty canvas. Without apparent concern for being in public, he lifts his t-shirt, uses it to mop the sweat off his cheeks and forehead, and shit, his abs are moderately terrifying. Not because they’re bulky, but because he has next to nothing else around his middle. Keith tightens his hand on the edge of bench, tries to stop looking at Shirogane and give the guy some privacy already—

Then, the t-shirt drops back into place. Keith gulps, lifts his head. A chill shocks to the pit of his stomach as his eyes meet Shirogane’s.

Shirogane’s lips twist themselves up. Curl into a smile with a broken glass edge to it. Rather than going cold, the way Keith would deserve after getting busted in the act of ogling, Shirogane’s eyes glimmer with unspoken devious intentions. Whatever flares up behind them is harder than his abs. If he’d do Keith the kindness of looking angry, then it might be easier to look at Shirogane. His face might make more sense. Keith might get closer to understanding what in creation is going on right now.

Instead of giving Keith that chance, Shirogane smirks. Flashes his irritatingly perfect teeth like Keith threw him a challenge and Shirogane can’t wait to meet it. He jumps on the mat, rolls out his shoulders. Turns back to the punching bag, and quirks his eyebrows at Keith. Without words, he’s begging Keith to pay attention. To keep his eyes on Shirogane and watch him work.

Keith wrinkles his nose, blinks at the floor. Shirogane’s gloves stay in a heap down by his feet. He furrows his brow at Shirogane and, despite himself, Keith lets his mouth fall open. Giving him any sort of reaction might encourage the idiot in ways Keith could come to regret, but… Holy shit, wait, _really_? Going at the bag without properly protecting his hands, his wrists, his knuckles? There are so many ways this could go terribly for him, so many ways that he could hurt himself. Sprained wrists, fractured knuckles, tendon injuries. Sure, he still has the wraps, but relative to how heavy the bag is? Is Shirogane fucking serious? He takes a few practice jabs at thin air like he might be serious.

With a quick, sharp _smack!_ , Shirogane hits the bag. Not hard enough to move it much. But hard enough that he winces and Keith gasps.

As if that’s not enough to prove whatever point he has in mind, Shirogane goes at the thing again. Strikes it hard and fast. Makes the chain rattle in protest. Doesn’t care about the way his face contorts. Then, he punches the bag again, and another time after that, and another. Nimbly, he bobs on his feet. Vaguely, Keith wonders what he’s like to spar with properly.

But watching Shirogane throw another flurry at the bag, Keith’s breath struggles to get into him. He digs the edge of the bench into his fingers. Makes himself whine, but when he tries to say something, he can’t find his voice. Keith’s arms shake like they’ll never stop and it’s a miracle that he doesn’t puke. He can’t let Shirogane do this to himself. Keith _can’t_ let somebody willfully fuck up their hands or, worse, put themself in the goddamn infirmary. Keith _can’t_ sit idle by. Especially not when Shirogane might be doing it _because_ of Keith.

Keith’s shoulders get so hard, his body feels like it’s turned to stone. Fuck, he needs to stop this. Needs get over there and intervene, damn any protocols or decorum. If he can’t say anything, he has to get between Shirogane and the bag—

“ _Shiro!_ ”

Keith freezes, still halfway in the chest press. That familiar, barking voice makes Shirogane snap to attention.

Which Keith can’t hold against him, not when Iverson’s storming over to him. But, flushed as he is, Shirogane holds that perfect posture without breaking. His knees tremble and all he does is stiffen his back. The bag thumps into his shoulder and he doesn’t flinch. Chin raised and shoulders back, he would fool Keith perfectly, if Keith hadn’t seen how he’s been going at the punching bag. When Iverson gets to him, Shirogane salutes as though his arm isn’t quivering. As though he _didn’t_ get caught by a senior officer and called out in the act of deliberately hurting himself or whatever he thinks that he was doing.

Wholly focused on Shirogane, Iverson folds his arms over his chest. Which would make Keith crumble if their positions were reversed, he’s pretty certain. He couldn’t handle Iverson calling him by a nickname, either. The fact that Shirogane keeps his hand to his brow has got to mean that there’s something unique to him. More than Keith has guessed, for sure. Possibly actual superpowers. Keith wouldn’t put that past him.

Rolling his good eye, Iverson sighs and returns the salute. “At ease, son,” he grumbles.

Shirogane drops the propriety, and as he lets his shoulders droop, Keith expects the tension in the air to dissipate. Iverson gave Shirogane permission to act like a normal person instead of some perfect little robot, programmed to always, always, always project the Garrison golden boy face to everybody. Which means that Shirogane should relax already.

Except, he doesn’t. He looks to Iverson expectantly, and Iverson narrows his eye in return. He straightens himself up to full height, and despite the fact that he’s shorter than the golden boy, Shirogane slouches. Cowers, tenses like Iverson’s backing him into a corner. He ducks his chin, drops his gaze to the floor. Although he doesn’t completely pale, the flush drains from his cheeks until they look like his normal complexion.

Keith makes himself wince from how hard he kneads the bench’s edge into his hand — but holy shit, he needs to know that he isn’t dreaming, isn’t hallucinating, isn’t making any of this up. He has to be completely certain that he’s watching Iverson chew Shirogane out while Shirogane stands here, taking it in silence as though he doesn’t know that, around the Garrison, he could get away with anything he wanted. Even if they’ve barely said anything, that must be where this is going. Iverson’s a master at chewing people out.

But there’s no anger in Iverson’s voice at all as he says, “Shiro, we’ve talked about this. And about breakfast?”

“Yes, sir. I _know_ , sir.” Shirogane’s voice is tight, but Keith can’t tell if it’s from protesting or from trying not to sound like he’s ready to pass out. Or maybe from trying not to sound like he’s protesting while he looks like he could easily pass out. “I was gonna head there after I finished—”

“Commissary’s closed down until lunch.”

“I wasn’t really hungry, anyway.”

Iverson’s fingers twitch, digging harder at his elbow. He takes a moment and a few deep breaths, then keeps his voice low. “My office, son. _Now_.”

“I heard everything the _first_ ten times! I don’t _need_ to go over any of this again!” Immediately realizing what he’s snapped, Shirogane flushes again. Brilliant, blistered red spills from his cheeks onto his neck as he hunches his shoulders and looks away from their senior officer. His voice strains so much, Keith can’t believe it doesn’t break while Shirogane says, “Also, I haven’t cooled down yet. _Sir_.”

Keith’s breath hitches hard in his throat. He swallows thickly. This entire scene should not be happening. He must’ve hit his head on something. Maybe the commissary’s so-called eggs made him so sick that he’s passed out somewhere. Sure, there’s the pain to account for — but Keith could be losing himself in his hallucination or his dream or whatever this is. He could be so far gone in his own head that gripping the bench feels like it’s hurting him.

On the other hand, if Keith were dreaming this, Iverson would do more than sigh as if he’s disappointed by the reaction that Shirogane gives him. He wouldn’t simply squint his good eye. He wouldn’t go quiet or hug himself like he needs to seriously consider what he wants to tell the golden boy — like it even matters, when Iverson’s superior status trounces any of Shirogane’s hypothetical objections. If Keith’s mind had any control over this scenario at all, Iverson would scream himself raw. His voice would echo throughout the gym and down the corridors, drawing everyone in the building to come rubberneck while Shirogane got called to the carpet. Hell, Keith’s Iverson would attract everyone on the Garrison’s campus with his hollering, and Shirogane wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye, the way he’s doing now.

But all Iverson does is stare at Shirogane, dead-on, and tell him in a steady, borderline gentle voice, “Son, we are talking about this now, whether you like it or not. Do you want to have that conversation where everyone can hear? Or do you want to cooperate and head back to my office?”

Huffing petulantly, Shirogane slouches but doesn’t break his eye-contact with Iverson.

For a moment, the whole gym feels like it’s getting flash-frozen. Keith eases his hand off the bench slowly, as if any motion might get him noticed by Commander Iverson and (rightfully) called out for eavesdropping on a discussion that’s none of his business. Even if Keith weren’t a cadet, even if he had the right to argue in that situation, he couldn’t. He’s had plenty of chances to either intervene or get out of dodge, and Keith hasn’t taken any of them.

Worse, Keith could get Shirogane’s attention back. As he rubs the angry red indentations in his fingers, Keith realizes how much he doesn’t want that. Shirogane’s pouting like McKay does when Professor Montgomery snaps at him for breaking Garrison decorum in front of the cadets. Glowering like Shepard when Iverson and Harris won’t let her off the hook for making a ruckus in the hallways. Scowling like Whitesel has, every time Keith’s heard him tell the story of how his parents only bought him a _Jamison_ hoverbike for his sixteenth birthday, not a _Nichols_ like he wanted, even though there’s no meaningful difference in their prices and the Jamison models are better as vehicles, if not as pointless, peacocking status symbols.

Gulping, Keith curls his hand around his knee for want of _something_ to hold on to. Shirogane’s making the same sullen, ungrateful expressions as the other Garrison legacies for once, and everything about it feels _wrong_. From the way he slouches, to the thunderstorms raging behind his gray eyes, to the deep scowl twisting up his unfairly pretty face, where it has no place being, ever, please and thank you. Then, there’s the razor-sharp edge to his face, which none of the other legacies have had, when Keith’s seen them get like this. They’re a bunch of frivolous assholes, hungry for instant gratification. But Shirogane looks like his nerves are reinforced with stainless steel and he’s sitting on pent-up, volcanic rage. 

Looking at him makes Keith’s arms break out in gooseflesh again, but he needs to see how the rest of this pans out.

Taking a deep breath, Shirogane shoves his black hair off his face. As he hisses that he is _feeling perfectly fine, thank you for checking in on him, sir_ , Keith has to dig his fingertips into his shin to keep from gasping too hard. No matter how deserved it is, in this situation, that sound could definitely get him noticed. Could definitely call trouble down on Keith’s head. Even the smallish sound that he lets slip could turn this into a disaster that affects Keith directly, too.

Except, today, it doesn’t.

Today, Iverson shakes his head and grabs Shirogane by the elbow. “My. Office. Son,” he says again. “ _Now_.”

That should make Keith breathe easier, it _should_. Shirogane is someone else’s problem now, and Keith’s no longer prying into things that he likely wasn’t meant to know about. Yet, as Iverson hauls the golden boy toward the hallway, Keith would swear that Shirogane glances back to him.

He could swear that Shirogane looks about five seconds off from breaking down in tears.

Grunting, Keith shoves himself off the chest press’s bench. He heads to the wall with containers of supplies and wraps his own hands up. Shoves them into a pair of gloves that come in his size. Maybe Shirogane went too far, but wailing on the punching bag sounds like the best idea that Keith’s heard all fucking week.

*** * ***

Meeting with Ms. Cvetkovich, one of the Garrison’s counselors, goes as tediously as Shiro expected when Iverson laid down the law on Sunday.

She’s a round-faced, doe-eyed white woman, moonlight pale, with a warm, delicate voice that practically begs you to trust her. Her office was painfully cozy, with a plush second-hand sofa that tries to swallow Shiro whole when he flops onto it and heat that makes Shiro’s gaping collar feel like it’s choking him. When she handed Shiro a clipboard and pen to fill out some paperwork — and later when she handed him a cup of tea — her soft fingers brushed against the back of his hand as if she couldn’t stand the idea that he might not understand how _she was here for him_. Moreover, she needs him to know that she is _here to help_.

Which was nice in theory, but as Shiro listened to her questions and tries to give her satisfactory answers, he can’t shake the feeling that taking a swan-dive off of the roof of the observatory would be infinitely preferable to suffering through the rest of this garbage.

Not that Shiro has anything against her, personally. How can he when his session on Thursday afternoon is the first time he’s met her? Before using the Garrison computers to schedule an appointment and grabbing the first one that he could find, Shiro didn’t even know that Ms. Cvetkovich existed, beyond a bare-minimum awareness of how the Garrison has counselors on its support staff. Furthermore, how can he hold it against her that she wants to do her job? The fact that her job currently inconveniences him isn’t her fault, either. Nothing about this situation is anybody’s fault but Shiro’s, for all she’s too polite to say so.

Vaguely, when Ms. Cvetkovich asks what made Shiro come seeking an appointment, he considers blaming things on Commander Iverson. After all, it wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate. Shiro _wouldn’t_ be sinking into this godawful, overly sterile-smelling couch if his mentor hadn’t stuck his nose into problems that do not exist.

_“I know how much your grandfather meant to you, but you’re a goddamn wreck, son,”_ Iverson said, after dragging Shiro out of the gym and setting up one of the Garrison’s noise-canceling devices by his door so that nobody could eavesdrop on their conversation. _“I’ve offered to talk to you about anything you want. I’ve offered to help you out however I can. I’ve given you plenty of chances to fix things on your own and you’re still falling apart. Worse, I don’t see any evidence that you’re doing a single thing to help yourself. Either you get in with one of the counselors in the next ten days, or I make my concerns about your well-being official. Trust me: neither of us wants that to happen. Do I make myself clear?”_

His tone was heavy as he put that ultimatum out there. He left no room for argument, and barely any room for questions. The only one that didn’t get Shiro glared at was, _“What if none of the counselors has anything open in that time frame?”_

That question earned him a too understanding sigh and the advice that, in such an event, he should let Iverson see the schedules posted on the Garrison’s systems. If necessary, Iverson wouldn’t have been above pulling strings or calling in favors with one of the counselors. Worst case scenario, Iverson would let Shiro have extra time, so long as he got an appointment in the near future and got to work on sorting himself out. If he had to wait for an appointment, then Iverson wanted to schedule extra meetings with just the two of them, not about Shiro’s research projects but about Shiro himself.

Absolutely none of which is necessary, if anyone cares what Shiro thinks about anything. But he guesses that nobody does.

There should’ve been an easy middle-ground in telling Ms. Cvetkovich, _“Commander Iverson feels that I’ve been having some difficulties lately. He suggested that I get in and sit down with somebody as soon as possible.”_ That should have worked out fine, since it told the truth without assigning blame or feeling too horridly petulant.

Instead, it made her ask about said difficulties. Apparently, the correct answer to that was something other than, _“I haven’t had any difficulties, alright? Commander Iverson was friends with my parents before they died on a mission to Oberon. I’m his teaching assistant and he’s the primary supervisor of my postgraduate studies. He’s concerned about nothing, and he’s being overprotective, and he’s been an amazing mentor to me, so I want to appease him about this. But I have honestly been doing fine, I don’t know what the fuss is.”_

They got onto the subject of Grandfather’s death in short enough order, when Ms. Cvetkovich asked about the few days that Shiro spent out in California. Calling it a trip home to deal with some pressing family issues wasn’t a lie, but it also didn’t satisfy her nearly as much as Shiro hoped. She nodded in calm, probably feigned sympathy and asked what said issues were, and how he’d felt about them. Hearing that a funeral had been involved, Ms. Cvetkovich sighed as though this made everything click into place for her. She got a small, tight smile, as though the fact that Shiro lost his Grandfather offered her a Rosetta Stone for translating his words and his behaviors into whatever unbecoming, detached, obnoxiously clinical, diagnostic language she wanted Shiro to be using to discuss whatever issues she wanted him to have.

When their time with each other was up, Ms. Cvetkovich offered him another smile — really forced the warmth of it, tried to seem congenial like her life depended on that — and said, “What does your schedule look like for the next two weeks, Shiro? I think we’ve had a very good first discussion, and a productive start. I’d like to see you back so that we can continue what we’ve started. Grieving is a process, and you will get more help if you allow yourself to open up to it.”

It’s been nearly two hours since she set Shiro free from her office, and he’s spent the whole time on autopilot, grasping at whatever he can find to ground himself. Wandering in a haze, he trudged to Commander Iverson’s office because even if he didn’t ask for such a courtesy from the hopeless disaster he’s taken on as a protégé, he probably wanted to know about how things went. Hearing that Shiro has another appointment for the same time next Thursday, Iverson nodded and tried to give Shiro a reassuring smile. Such expressions don’t come easily to him, so it only made sense that his face didn’t flood Shiro’s chest with any warm, safe feelings or make him feel any more at ease about this situation.

Slouched against Commander Iverson’s door, though, Shiro couldn’t help feeling like his mentor could’ve tried to console him or encourage him — whichever Iverson wanted to think that he was doing — with at least fifty percent less pity in his expression.

Granted, Shiro shouldn’t sneeze at that. He’s pretty singular among everyone at the Garrison because Commander Iverson offers him any special kindness like this. In all likelihood, Iverson didn’t even _mean_ for it to seem like pity. Knowing him, he probably only wanted to help and unsurprisingly, the only reason why he’s at his limit is Shiro: Shiro being stubborn, Shiro being difficult, Shiro refusing to get himself together and forcing Iverson’s hand about this in the first place because _Shiro_ decided to let everybody down again.

As Shiro aimlessly skulks around the Ahn Building’s hallways, he’s grateful to find them mostly empty. He doesn’t need to be around anybody else, right now. Not least since the endgame point of his session with Ms. Cvetkovich seems to have been reminding him that ultimately, he is responsible for so much of the pain that finds the people he cares about most. Which is fair enough, Shiro supposes. Their conversation wouldn’t have rubbed his face in that if it weren’t true.

Burdening Iverson like this, making him feel obligated to drag Shiro kicking and screaming away from the self-destruct course he thinks that Shiro’s set on? That’s only the most recent example. Before that, Iverson didn’t need to take Shiro on or give him any special attention. He could’ve left Shiro to his own devices because being Shirogane Hikaru and Shirogane Noshiko’s son didn’t mean that Iverson owed him anything. Didn’t mean that Iverson _needed_ to care about Shiro in any capacity. Yet, he does and all that Shiro’s done lately is throw it back at him like he’s a miserable, belly-to-the-ground ingrate.

(His Grandfather did not raise him to be this way — that thought crops up as Shiro rounds one of the corners by the Ahn Building’s archives room. Neither of his parents would be too pleased with him, considering that Iverson was their friend long before he was Shiro’s mentor. But were Grandfather Takashi alive to see how Shiro’s acting, he’d be even more disappointed and even more ashamed of Shiro. He would purse his lips so tightly that they almost disappeared and temple his fingers, pressing them hard against each other because he needed to ground himself, to _focus_. However much he considered the situation, though, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t give Shiro the kindness of simply being angry with him and right now, Shiro would not deserve it, either.

Because for once, the truth is pure and simple: Grandfather did not raise Shiro like this. He raised Shiro to be _better_.)

Then, of course, there’s the things that Shiro does to his poor brother, the strain that he puts on his brother’s nerves by being so hopeless, so selfish. Ryou never sleeps well before Shiro has a mission. He starts getting anxious as soon as he hears that his Kashi is going into space again, and it throws off his ability to get any rest. As the launch date draws closer, he starts pulling more and more all-nighters, despite his best attempts at resisting them. NyQuil, alcohol, and melatonin have all failed to knock him out before. By the time he shows up to see Shiro off, he always looks like some kind of mess because their parents died in space. So did their great-uncle, their great-aunt, their great-grandfather, and both of their Mom’s siblings. But Shiro insisted on joining the Garrison, insisted on becoming a pilot, insisted on furthering the family’s legacy—

( _You cared more about the legacy than about your own brother,_ says a voice in the back of his head that sounds impossibly like his Grandfather. _You wanted to go into space so badly, and why was that, exactly? To what purpose, Kashi? What do you get out of it? Loyalty to people who aren’t alive? The love of parents you barely even knew, who can’t give it to you anyway? You can’t bring them back by flying far enough. You can’t take their place by becoming a pilot like your mother, or studying astrophysics like your father. You cannot_ —

Except, no. Grandfather wouldn’t have said that. He wouldn’t have said anything like that. Never. He was proud of Shiro making it into the Garrison. Talked up his grandson, the youngest accredited pilot in the Garrison’s history and one of their youngest ever Captains. The genius whose papers were getting international acclaim and who had someone like Commander Mitch Iverson taking a personal interest in his development at the Garrison. The great big hero who saved the Titan-Hyperion landing from disaster, made sure the entire team safely got home to their families—

_—But you couldn’t even be bothered to call your own, could you? Ryou had to do that for you—_

But it wasn’t like that, was it? It couldn’t have been. First, there was the press conference that Shiro couldn’t get out of. Then, the interviews. The Garrison’s medical and support staff had him on such a close watch for months after the landing, it was next to impossible to get away from them and calling home isn’t something that Shiro can do around other people. Ryou and their Grandfather could crack him open like a book. Ryou still can; he barely needs to put in the effort. Those conversations are not for other people’s consumption or their observation—

_—Kashi, if you really cared about your brother, you’d never fly like this. You’d never make him worry that he might lose you to the legacy—_ )

Abruptly stopping in the corridor, Shiro bangs a fist into the wall with a dull, muffled _thud!_

He winces, grinds his skin against the brick. Thank God or whatever else — at least he didn’t hit a wall that’s made of something more fragile. Not that he could do that much damage, now that he’s thinned out again, but it’s the principle of the thing. Damaging Garrison property would violate several rules. It might obstruct people other than Shiro, might impede their lives and livelihoods, leave them struggling to fix something that wouldn’t have broken if not for Shiro. Lashing out is only fair game so long as Shiro doesn’t hurt anybody else. If the damage only falls on him, then no harm, no foul.

Taking a moment, Shiro glances around and makes sure that he’s alone. Since he is, he mutters a quiet prayer of thanks. Without any interlopers to judge him for it — or worse, to run off and tell Iverson that Shiro might be losing it — he slams the side of his fist into the brick again. The sound’s unsatisfying; the wall doesn’t have enough give to it and Shiro isn’t hitting hard enough to get a _crack_. Or with the right part of his hand, besides. But he inhales sharply the pain shoots up his forearm. When a sigh claws its way out of him, it’s one of relief. Desperate and trembling, but unmistakably breathing easier than he was before.

Taking advantage of the solitude, Shiro gets in a few more thumps. He should stop this before he actually hurts himself. If nothing else, he should get down to the commissary because Iverson might take his head off of Shiro misses dinner. Worse, Iverson might be disappointed, because he knows that Shiro’s better than this. Knows that Shiro shouldn’t allow himself to _fall apart_ like this over losing someone he loved, when dying is a part of life that happens to everybody.

( _Unless you’re made of weaker stuff than everybody thinks,_ says one thought. It doesn’t sound at all like Grandfather Takashi, but beyond that, Shiro can’t place who or what it might belong to. His own mind, maybe. The impulses that he tries to pretend he doesn’t have, because they’re so incredibly unbecoming of a Galaxy Garrison officer and it wouldn’t do to show any kind of weakness where the cadets might see Shiro do it.

But it feels impossibly confident, and painfully true, as it tells him, _Maybe that’s the real reason why your Grandfather didn’t tell you that he was sick. Maybe it had nothing to do with wanting you to enjoy your mission or care for yourself afterward. Maybe he knew the truths that you so fiercely wish you could deny: you’re weak. You always have been. You’d never survive if anything truly horrible befell you, and you would have fallen apart back then if he or Ryou had told you the truth—_ )

One more smack to the wall and Shiro pushes himself down the corridor. He _should_ head for the commissary, he realizes. Even though Shiro went to breakfast and lunch with everybody else — even though he hasn’t missed any meal-times since Sunday morning — Iverson will probably be looking at him. If Shiro doesn’t show, then he’ll be due for a Talking To, maybe even a proper Chewing Out.

But instead of doing the smart thing, Shiro heads deeper into the Ahn Building. He skitters down one of the stairwells, dashes for the basement level as fast as his legs can carry him. He’s gone down these halls so many times; he could find where he’s going in his sleep or blackout drunk or drugged to the gills on hospital-grade narcotics, such a mess that he could barely even walk. Without anybody else around to disapprove, he runs there so fast that he skids outside the door, has to fumble his ID card out of his pocket.

A positive side-effect of everybody thinking that he’s such a golden, gleaming prodigy and being Commander Iverson’s TA: Shiro can get into the simulator cabins whenever he pleases and doesn’t need to file any paperwork. Not unless he wants to specially reserve one of them, but what’s the point of wasting time on that, when everybody else is off at dinner.

Slipping into the sim-cabin gets Shiro breathing even more easily than hitting the wall did. It soothes his nerves more than Shiro got out of the punching bag on Sunday, and more than he’s ever gotten out of running until he felt like he’d have a reasonable excuse for not getting out of bed, come morning. Not that he could allow himself to give in to those impulses, or that he’s ever seriously considered that an option. Seeming fine was all he had going for him until he started screwing it up recently. Staying in bed all day would not have been conducive to seeming fine.

Anyway, if he ever _had_ let himself slip up so badly, it only would’ve made Shiro feel like he was too inept and stupid to handle anything himself.

In the back of his mind, as he flips on the controls and boots up the simulator, Shiro can’t believe that it’s taken him so long to get down here outside of his scheduled practice drills. Settling into the pilot’s seat at the head of the cabin, he clicks through the selection screens, picking out the highest possible difficulty, choosing the machine’s settings for solo mission designs, and confirming that he wants to run simulations as a pilot, not a comm-spec, a medic, a support staff member, or an engineer.

Watching the first warm-up mission come into his view, Shiro wonders if he should’ve changed into his jumpsuit. Probably, yes, he should have — but on the other hand, he doesn’t have any professors, superior officers, and/or cadets around to judge him for sticking to his normal uniform. Iverson won’t find out about this unless he checks the sim-cabin’s logs when Shiro isn’t at dinner. Moreover, this isn’t about rehearsing the protocols or making sure that Shiro still knows how to conduct himself on a real flight. This is about Shiro and clearing his head already.

Even with the difficulty cranked up as high as Shiro can get it, the warm-up mission is almost condescendingly easy. Granted, that’s rather the point of warm-up missions, but that doesn’t mean Shiro has to like it. Rolling his eyes and grumbling, he only runs a second one — a jaunt up to Earth’s moon to recover stranded Garrison research scientists without landing in the same trap that they fell into — because the sim-cabin won’t shut up at him about how he’ll get better results out of his practice session if he makes sure that he’s _properly_ ready for it.

“Yeah, because you’re better qualified to be the judge of that than me,” he snarls after another _Mission Success!_ screen is followed by another obnoxious reminder that _Getting the most out of a Galaxy Garrison simulator cabin requires that users be in top form. If you are not certain about your readiness to fly a proper practice mission, then we advise you to run another warm-up_.

When the machine finally deigns to let Shiro pick out a real mission, he goes with one of the first that he ever flew for real: Phobos and Deimos. It’s perfect. Shiro could pilot this if he had a massive cerebral hemorrhage.

The simulator throws everything that it has at him. Getting through the Deimos half of the mission is rocky, thanks to a dust-storm that none of the Garrison techs’ foresaw, but Shiro manages it perfectly. Not a single hiccup.

As he enters Phobos’s atmosphere, one of his hydraulic stabilizers gets knocked out. Without an engineer to fix it immediately, Shiro has to work more closely with the controls than he would otherwise. Needs to _really_ get the feel for the simulated ship and how it’s handling. During a clear stretch of sky, Shiro takes a deep breath, curls his hands around the clutch and the steering-stick as if caressing some guy’s face while getting kissed, and closes his eyes — it does the trick. Clears his head immediately. No visual distractions to get lost in, just the feeling of how the ship moves in the atmosphere, how the weather conditions affect things as Shiro pulls himself, how the simulator kicks back in certain places, or against certain moves on Shiro’s part, but does nothing for certain others.

The only downside is that Shiro can’t _truly_ become one with his ship, whether simulated or not. God, what he wouldn’t give to have that kind of feeling, though. As he kicks his eyes back open, Shiro can’t help wondering what it’d take for him to find a ship like that. A ship that could _really_ work with him, instead of making him bow to the will of emotionless, non-sentient mechanisms and assemblages of wires and gears and stabilizers. More than a vehicle, more than a marvel of design, even more than sum of its component parts than any other kind of ship.

There’s probably no way that anyone on Earth could make such a ship. Even with all the advances that humanity’s made in AI technology, they still haven’t reached the point of making an artificial intelligence that gains its own sentience. Any notions that Shiro’s entertained about finding a ship that might truly speak to him, instead of only doing so metaphorically — any dreams he’s ever had about finding a ship that he could call a _friend_ , when he can never get close to that point with most people — they will definitely stay exactly as they are. Dreams and notions. Notions and dreams. Comforting in their own ways, motivating in certain others, but no more practically helpful than the barrel-roll that Shiro puts his simulated ship through for no reason beyond _seeing what happens_ when he does.

What happens is that the sim-cabin jostles, jerking him this way and that. The program’s protest about Shiro wasting time instead of settling down somewhere and fixing the busted stabilizer. Passing several places where he could land if not for the winds that the simulator decides to kick up for him, Shiro sighs from the pit of his chest. Possibly somewhere deeper, even. His bones twist — he could swear he feels his marrow writhing — over the fundamental, grimy sense of _wrongness_ that slithers down his spine and curls its tendrils around his throat.

What could be going wrong, Shiro can’t say. He pulls off the landing perfectly, finding a good piece of stable terrain where he can set his simulated-ship and toggle with the wires inside the sim-cabin’s makeshift stabilizer. This part would be easier if Shiro were a better engineer, but he manages to fix things quickly. The cabin darkens, then the green lights at the front flash him another _Mission Success!_ screen, complete with a fanfare and the automated voice announcing his scores for him.

Pretty good, all up, especially considering that Shiro wasted so much time, communing with a ship that isn’t even real. But they aren’t _perfect_ scores, and Shiro knows with every fiber of his being that he can do so much better. All he needs to do is concentrate and apply himself.

So, repeating his Grandfather’s old mantra in his head — _“Patience yields focus… Patience yields focus… Patience yields focus”_ — Shiro flicks through the selection screens and picks out a flight to Thalassa. He owes this to himself, after he skipped out on doing it for real so he could be on-planet in case Ryou needed him (which of course he hasn’t, because no matter how much Shiro wishes otherwise, his brother’s life is no doubt infinitely better when Shiro stays as far out of Ryou’s business as he possibly can). True, this simulation isn’t inspired by the current mission out there, but it’s going to the same Neptunian moon that Shiro passed up on flying to, even though he _wanted_ to go.

Without pulling any stunts this time or allowing his feelings to distract him, Shiro zeroes in on the mission. He kneads at the controls and keeps his breathing even while navigating the asteroid belt, dodging some that come his way seemingly out of nowhere. When he pilots right into a storm that none of his sensors picked up on, he sets his jaw and keeps chorusing, _“Patience yields focus”_ at himself as if that will ground him any better than pain and flying have done so far this evening. In fairness, it _does_ help keep him grounded, which helps him stick the landing.

But at the same time, none of this is clearing Shiro’s head so much that, just for a while, he won’t need to feel like himself. When he finally sees his _Mission Success!_ screen, it doesn’t feel like Shiro’s _earned_ anything. At least, not through his own hard work and his own efforts. It’s like the simulator is catering to him unnecessarily, trying to hand him unfair advantages because of his family’s history and who his parents were.

God, his _parents_ — simply thinking about them makes Shiro’s stomach turn as if he needs to go be sick.

In turn, that feeling sets something alight in Shiro’s chest. Back on the selection screens, he clicks through pages upon pages, trawling through all the different options for missions to the moons of Uranus. The one that he wants is so buried that, when it finally comes up, Shiro nearly misses it. Ever since his first solo trip to the sim-cabins, he’s avoided this mission the way that Shepard and McKay avoid hard work.

With a pensive hum, Shiro double-checks to make sure that all the settings are how he wants them. He sneaks a peak at the statistics from previous times that other people have flown this simulation, gives a low whistle at how many times it’s ended in a failure. He reads the title and the mission description three times over before confirming that yes, this is the one. Yes, he wants to run this simulation. Yes, with all of the parameters in place for the now-outdated craft and equipment, the storms on Oberon’s surface caused by the Garrison’s attempts at terraforming, and the mechanical failure that would undo his Mom and Dad’s otherwise routine flight.

As the mission loads, Shiro takes several slow, deep breaths. _Patience yields focus_ , he reminds himself, as his Grandfather would’ve done.

Taking off from Earth is routine as ever; Shiro could sleep through it, if that wouldn’t kill his focus. Idly, he wonders if he should feel grateful that the Garrison’s simulation programmers didn’t include his and Ryou’s childhood faces in the throng of onlookers, down at the launch site. They used the same stock crowd as always. Plenty of people before Shiro have probably run this exact simulation without appreciating what this mission really means, without the slightest clue or care that its crew never made it home or that their pilot and lead astrophysicist left behind twin boys, so young that they barely remember their own Mom and Dad—

Biting his lip, Shiro shakes his head. He slams the throttle without thinking. Has to jerk the controls at breakneck speed, all so he doesn’t slam into an asteroid. He speeds through the rest of the belt — slowing down now would just make everything more difficult for him — and who cares if bobbing and weaving through the hazard zone keeps him on his toes? It’s clearing his head, and backing down from a challenge is for quitters.

On the other side of the belt, Shiro tries to rein himself back in. Forces himself to breathe slowly, no matter how much this feels like something clawing at the inside of his throat. He grinds his fingers at his eyes, hisses at them for itching like he’s caught someone else’s allergies secondhand. Shiro’s never been allergic to anything in his life, as far as he knows. Why would his eyes start misbehaving like this _now_?

Checking over the systems before him, Shiro scoffs when the simulator tells him that his craft has sustained no damages. None. Not a single one — but that can’t be right. Since getting the necessary clearance for them, Shiro’s read all of the reports about this mission in every records room on the Garrison’s campus. His Mom’s craft got banged up more than its fair share in the asteroid belt. She did everything right in piloting it — she did everything _exactly_ by the book — but still, she took damages and her team’s engineer didn’t realize how bad they were until it was too late.

But three more checks of the scanners give Shiro the same result: he broke so many protocols he learned in the Garrison’s flight school. He navigated the asteroids like a maniac, flying in ways that no doubt would’ve scandalized his Mom. By all accounts that Shiro’s ever read or heard from his Grandfather, Commander Iverson, and Professor Montgomery, Shirogane Noshiko was one of the biggest sticklers for rules that the Galaxy Garrison has ever seen, before or since. Her husband was only marginally less strict than she was. The reports from their mission to Oberon said that he supported her choices in how to fly more than the rest of their team.

And even though their elder son flew so recklessly that he could’ve died had this been real, Shiro took no hits or damage whatsoever.

He jerks his head again. Digs his teeth into his lip so hard, it’s a wonder he doesn’t draw any blood. _Get it together_ — he hisses to himself because this mission is _important_. Can’t bask in any congratulatory self-contentment yet. He still has to make it to Oberon. Even knowing that a storm will meet him on the moon might not ultimately matter. There’s a difference between the theoretical knowledge that there’s a storm coming and dealing with the storm itself. The sheer number of people who’ve crashed this simulation before is probably a testament to that. Onward is the only way to go.

As he closes in on Uranus, he rubs his eyes again, to no avail. Seriously, what is their deal? Who gave them the right to burn like this?

Whatever. Nothing comes from agitating them and nothing comes from waiting to see what they’ll do. So, Shiro puts the question aside and presses on. No sense in wasting time, trying to understand a problem that doesn’t want to be solved.

Getting closer to Oberon goes without any further incident. Hitting the solar wind is the only thing that keeps Shiro from thinking the simulator might have a glitch that’s making things too easy. Pressure and magnetic distortion bear down on the simulated craft, screwing up all of Shiro’s ability to get any good readings about the moon’s surface. Still, penetrating its atmosphere hardly makes him bat an eyelash.

As he nears the surface, the storm finds him and Shiro sighs. The Galaxy Garrison wanted so badly to set up a proper research outpost on Oberon, like the ones they already had on Phobos, Deimos, Europa, Ganymede, and Titan. Like the ones that they’ve since established on Titania, Umbriel, Triton, and Thalassa. An outpost on Oberon could’ve helped them run longer missions to the outer reaches of the solar system, could’ve helped them better understand the gas planets and their moons and satellites, even could’ve helped them find more evidence about whether or not extraterrestrial life exists. Humanity could’ve made it to Kerberos or even further, if they had the Oberon outpost in place. More clearly than anything else he remembers on his own about his parents’ last mission, Shiro remembers Mom pointing out Pluto’s natural satellite on a map of the solar system and telling him that the Garrison would get there someday and the Oberon outpost could help make it happen.

There are several lessons to be learned from the story of how terraforming Oberon went to Hell so badly, from the deaths of the Garrison officers and scientists who ventured there. Shiro’s heard them all in lectures before. He presented on them for Professor Montgomery’s class as well, one time when she fell ill and as her TAs, Shepard and McKay passed the job off to him. But setting his jaw and shaking his head, Shiro tries to banish those thoughts. _Patience yields focus_ — and he can’t be distracted by what caused the storm while getting caught up in the thing itself. 

High-speed winds swarm on Shiro’s craft as he penetrates the stratosphere, kicking up rocks and chunks of ice. Both huge ones and smaller pellets that are nigh impossible to dodge. To say nothing of the whipping clouds and soil that make it nigh impossible to see. Holding fast to the controls, Shiro ducks into the eye of the storm. It’s calmer in here, but that won’t last. Visibility is still low. Shiro still needs to avoid getting hit by any debris. Thrown off by the storm as well as electromagnetic feedback — some of the malfunctioning terraforming equipment must be nearby — his sensors pick up no readings from the surface. They can barely show him anything outside the eye.

Taking slow breaths, feeling the cabin’s vibrations deep within his chest and trusting the way that his simulated ship quivers for him, Shiro takes a hard left. Narrowly misses getting smacked into by the largest hazard that’s come at him so far. When more break into the eye, coming at him in waves, he ducks here, plunging a few meters. Jerks there, pulling the craft back up before one of his wings takes a blow. Dances around the detritus as it soars toward him until he almost loses himself in the ship and the exhilaration of thwarting the simulator’s (allegedly best) attempts at taking him down. An eager chuckle slips past his lips, and Shiro _almost_ feels like he and the craft properly in sync with each other, working _together_ to survive this.

But Shiro can’t lose himself in that rush. Not when the simulator’s debris comes at him randomly. Likewise, he can’t stay here, locked in the eye of the storm and trying to keep up with whatever steps the storm throws at him. If he tries it, he _will_ eventually get hit. The electromagnetic feedback’s already throwing off his sensors and spreading to the controls, making them more hair-trigger, forcing Shiro to rein himself in. If he doesn’t get out of here _now_ , he might not be able to pull off _any_ kind of landing.

_What if we just take the plunge already? Nothing else is working out, so what if—_

The only idea that Shiro has feels incredibly stupid, as soon as he comes up with it. Precedent says that it’s ill-advised at best. Getting closer to the surface could mean dealing with more detritus. Could make it harder to find his way out of the storm. Closing in on the ground too quickly would throw things off within the craft. Even the Garrison craft’s best artificial gravity generators can’t adjust internal air pressure well enough if a ship starts going down too quickly. Worse, going all in when he can barely see could mean that Shiro crashes.

But diving would also put some distance between Shiro and the electromagnetic distortion in the upper parts of the storm, which means he has a better chance of seeing _anything_ on his sensors. Moreover, there’s no clear way out from up here. Shiro has to look elsewhere for an escape route, has to _make_ an exit for himself, if that’s what it comes to. Hissing with resolve, Shiro tilts the controls. Edges his craft around so another hunk of ice won’t hit his windshield. With a deep breath, Shiro throws himself into a dive.

In the back of his mind, Commander Iverson’s voice nags at Shiro, telling him how dangerous this stunt is, especially when visibility’s this low, but Shiro pushes on. He rolls his eyes when that probably better-grounded, definitely saner impulse reminds him that diving didn’t work out so well for Mom. When she did this exact stunt, the feedback caught her, then the winds. She couldn’t stay perfectly in control of her craft, got one of her wings effectively taken out. Oberon’s storm knocked her into a tailspin, and that’s the story of how everybody on that mission died.

But so what if this idea didn’t work out for Mom, back then? Staying up here in the eye isn’t working out for Shiro _now_. Holding back even less, he leans into the throttle and grins when the simulated craft vibrates with contentment and approval.

Shiro’s heart reels in his chest as he plummets toward the ground. It stops and starts with no discernible pattern. Stutters in ways that Shiro can’t translate. But for all his pulse ratchets up as he keeps going, Shiro’s breathing never quickens or catches before getting to his lungs. His hands stabilize, stop trembling. Even with the surface closing in on him, none of this feels anything like fear.

Before he can take things too far and crash, he yanks out of his dive. Jerks the craft so hard that the sim-cabin whines in protest and his head snaps against the back of his seat. Groaning from the impact, Shiro spots the exact space that he needs. It’s gotta be luck, but he grabs his chance while it’s there. Drives on while his heart slams against his rib-cage. Soars out of the eye of the storm and the worst parts as if it’s nothing special. He cruises into the realm where turbulence still knocks the sim-cabin around.

The ride gets smoother, the further Shiro gets from the whirlwind. Flying over Oberon’s craters, Shiro doesn’t try to land, no matter how beguiling that idea sounds. As the sim-cabin finally calms, tries to let him know that he’s found a spot of more or less smooth flying, it’s even harder to resist the impulse to put the craft on solid ground. But he can’t do that, yet. He has to get to the exact right generator, the one his parents never got to see. At least dodging around rock formations keeps Shiro sharp, keeps his senses awake.

When the landing site finally comes into view, Shiro’s eyes start burning again. His heart’s going so fast, he can barely feel it. Hummingbird fast. Even as his hands tremble, Shiro has no trouble getting the craft down where it belongs. As it settles and the sim-cabin confirms the safe landing, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

Waiting for something else to find him — some new simulated obstacle, whatever it is, because something _must_ be coming — Shiro about chokes when the cabin goes dark. Grits his teeth. Tightens his grip on the controls until the tremors start spreading up his arms.

Then, the fanfare plays. The automated voice intones _Mission Success!_ as those words flash on the screen.

Shiro blinks at those words uncomprehendingly. Stares at the screen for so long that it flickers and goes black, slipping into sleep mode. Each breath shivers on its way into him, sounds wet and shaky on its way out. His hands slacken but don’t let go of the controls. Not on their own. But they won’t let Shiro move them, either. They might well be glued there. If they aren’t, then Shiro doesn’t know that he _could_ move them, anyway. His chest feels like it’s made of jello but his arms are ten-ton weights attached to him at the shoulders.

Something must be wrong with the machine. The mission cannot have been this easy. Shiro’s hands move without him knowing how or why or what they think they’re doing. He finds no comfort when they click to his scores and pull up nearly perfect marks. His heart stutters as he looks at the simulator’s diagnostics. Technicians checked it out yesterday afternoon. It got a clean bill of health. According to the Garrison’s staff, there’s nothing wrong with the simulator. No glitches that could have given Shiro an advantage he didn’t deserve.

Except that makes no sense because the mission that killed Shiro’s Mom and Dad cannot have been this easy. Shiro’s craft should have gotten damaged in the asteroid belt and then the storm, just like theirs did. He should have gotten swept up in the whirlwind, unable to find a way out. His dive shouldn’t have worked. He threw caution to the wind, didn’t he? It wasn’t a careful, measured dive, the way that Mom’s was when she flew to Oberon. Meaning, Shiro definitely should’ve gone in too hard and crashed. None of this should have worked out in a successful mission.

Except it did. Shiro flew like someone with a death wish and landed the craft near-perfectly. Mom did everything on her flight exactly as directed, followed all of the Garrison’s rules, didn’t get caught up in any stupid, irrational notions of communing with her ship — and she and Dad never came home again. Not in the ways that Shiro wanted.

Shiro and Ryou never even saw their bodies, after the Garrison’s salvage team got them back. Grandfather Shirogane saw them with Commander Iverson, and both older men told Shiro and Ryou that they didn’t want to see their parents’ bodies in that kind of state, that they didn’t want to ruin their good memories of their parents with images like that. At the closed-casket memorial wake, Shiro held himself together. Kept his upper lip as stiff as possible so he could hug Ryou while his brother sobbed, refusing to accept comfort from anyone else. For days afterward, Shiro choked down so many things he felt for Ryou’s sake. Because Ryou needed him to be strong. Because Ryou couldn’t sleep without having nightmares and everything set him crying, from fumbling his paints to finding words he didn’t know in a book he was reading to getting the wrong notes while practicing his violin. Because Ryou _needed_ to rely on his Kashi, and how could Shiro refuse his only brother.

Then, Grandfather Shirogane finally asked what Shiro was feeling. Because he’d broken one of his own toys on purpose. He’d snapped at everyone all day, except for Ryou, and God help him, Shiro _wanted_ someone to just get angry at him so he would have an excuse to scream and shout and knock things over. But his Grandfather didn’t give him that. His Grandfather met the rage with gentleness until Shiro broke. Until Shiro’s face flushed hot and he couldn’t find any of the screams that had been building in his throat and he hid his tears in his Grandfather’s broad, stable shoulder, as if burying his face there would, through some kind of magic, keep the rest of the world from knowing that Shiro had failed Ryou by cracking so badly.

Grandfather Shirogane knew what the worst part was, for Shiro. He knew how deep it cut that Shiro spent so long not knowing what had happened to his parents, thinking that of course they might come home still because Dad was a brilliant scientist and Mom was one of the best pilots of her generation, believing that everything might be okay because no one told him to give up hope and stop trying to find ways that he thought he might bring them home somehow. He knew how much it hurt to feel so useless, so lost, so _lied to_ by so many of the people whom he was supposed to be able to trust.

But when push shoved, he didn’t tell Shiro that he was sick. He _chose_ not to. There were so many chances, even after the Titan-Hyperion mission. Grandfather Shirogane could’ve said something. _Anything_. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to, didn’t think Shiro could take it. Instead of giving Shiro the kindness of knowing better, he dragged Ryou into covering his illness up for him. Made Ryou complicit _lying_ to his brother about how everything back home was _fine_. Locked Shiro out of the loop entirely. So much time they could’ve—

As the simulator’s screen flickers back to sleep, Shiro tries to swallow. His throat catches the breath and won’t let it go. His ribs clamp down on his lungs, like his chest isn’t big enough for all of them. On the desk before him, his fingers tremble, curl into a fist. And his eyes are stinging him again. Burning him and itching like nothing will ever make them stop because why would it do that, what would the point be when in all likelihood nothing will ever feel okay again—

Until he blinks and suddenly, his eyes don’t hurt so much anymore. The sting’s still there, but not as bad.

Shiro gasps softly as tears spill over onto his cheeks, hot and shameful and silent. He tries to catch a deeper breath, but that only makes his eyes clench shut. Makes them squeeze out more tears. Because that’s what he needed, obviously. One more sign that he can’t get anything remotely right. That he isn’t the grandson that his namesake tried to raise, isn’t the protégé that Commander Iverson thinks he is, isn’t the brother that Ryou deserves. If he were even half of who he’s supposed to be, Shiro wouldn’t need this. He’d be strong. As fine as he’s tried to tell everyone he is, as if repeating that story often enough will make it true, which obviously, it hasn’t.

But Shiro guesses there’s no stopping this. Because of course there isn’t. Because that was never in the cards for him, no matter how long he’s held it off. As something in him shatters, Shiro takes a shuddering breath and puts his head down on the desk.

At least, if he’s going to crack like this, it could be worse. At least nobody’s around to see him breaking.

*** * ***

The only good thing Keith can say for the Garrison’s mac-and-cheese is that it makes his life about ten times easier. It’s not disgusting or nutrition-less enough that Keith needs to sneak off campus and scrounge for food elsewhere, but it also isn’t good enough that Keith wants to fight anybody else for seconds. He can rush through any meal when the commissary dishes up their sticky, pallid, typically unsatisfying mess of cheese and noodles, get the fuel that he needs, then move on and get to better things.

Tonight, that means heading over to the Ahn Building and down to the simulators. As one of the cadets who has permission to use it unsupervised, Keith can head to the sim-cabins whenever he wants without reserving one in advance. But there are only so many sim-cabins and Keith hates putting his name on a list and waiting for his turn.

As expected, Keith finds the basement hallways dark until his presence makes the fluorescents overhead flicker back to life. He doesn’t run, no matter how badly he wants to get started already, because someone _might_ come out of nowhere and find him here. Depending on who it is, Keith might get snapped at about proper safety and behavior like he’s back in freaking kindergarten. Hell, maybe Montgomery would even live up to her campfire story reputation and be magically summoned to this corridor by the sheer fact that Keith started running in it, which naturally required a lecture about the dignity expected of Galaxy Garrison officers.

So, he keeps himself together as much as possible. Doesn’t bother with his jumpsuit because he knows how to put it on and the simulator works just fine without wasting time on that. Walks himself down to the sim-cabins like the adult that he has legally been since last October, and careful not to rush, swipes himself through the electronic lock. Keith even lets himself smile at the soft, familiar beeping.

Reflexively, Keith heads for one of the sim-cabs toward the center of the row. Even if he has the basement to himself for now, somebody else might have the same idea to come log some extra practice. Sure, the sim-cabs light up when someone’s using them, but that hasn’t stopped other cadets from trying to walk in on Keith while he’s been in the middle of a mission. It hasn’t stopped McKay and Shepard from abusing the overrides they have, as officers, and kicking Keith out in mid-flight because every other cab was taken and being Garrison legacies means they feel entitled to shit on any cadet who doesn’t lick their boots as well as they desire. Grabbing one of the ones that’s more easily overlooked — neither at one of the ends nor smack-dab in the middle — betters Keith’s chances of going uninterrupted.

As soon as he opens the sim-cab’s door, Keith feels hair and gooseflesh pricking up along his forearms. The interior’s dark, the way that it should be. But the air feels _different_ from other times when Keith’s been in here by himself. Reaching for the switches to his right, Keith can’t put his finger on what’s bugging him so much about this. He can’t _see_ anything that’s terribly off, even with the illumination seeping in from outside the cabin — but the answer finds him just shy of lighting up the cabin.

Somebody else is already in the cabin.

Not that Keith blames himself for nearly missing this. Whoever he’s run into, they’re out of his immediate line of sight. He only realizes that they’re here because of the noise they’re making, soft and trembling and partially muffled, as if they badly wants to bury their own voice. Aside from that, picking out the sound at first doesn’t provide Keith with any easy answers. Wrinkling his nose, he listens for a moment, stands there ostensibly unnoticed in the doorway and takes in the wet, fraying quivers that the cabin’s occupant makes. The sniffles that they let slip into things and probably can’t hold back. Finally, they draw in a deep breath and let loose a sob that sounds like someone smashing a room full of priceless statues.

Keith cringes at the sound. Briefly hates himself for that, because no matter how he feels about these kinds of displays, it’s a dick move to flinch when you find somebody crying. But Keith can’t handle things like this. He can’t help them, so he should sneak out before he gets himself caught. He should pick a different sim-cab, get to the drills he wanted to put himself through, and leave whoever he’s found here to their private little cry. The thought sets a chill in Keith’s chest like he’s had his heart replaced with ice and his veins are pumping liquid nitrogen — but he can’t do anything to help this person. He _knows_ he can’t. All Keith’s ever done in situations like this one is make things infinitely worse.

Keeping his head down, he shuffles back one step, then another. He looks toward the front of the sim-cab, where the noise is coming from. Whoever’s up there doesn’t seem to have noticed Keith, so he should be in the clear. Free to get the fuck out of dodge.

Except, as he edges onto the ramp that leads back to the floor, whoever’s crying has to sob again. It’s not an _especially_ different sob, at first. Still sounds miserable, but that goes with the territory. They still sound like something inside of them is breaking apart like a mirror that’s about to smack Keith with seven years of bad luck. Shattering into more pieces than Keith could ever hope to count. But their first one came out like that, too, and it didn’t kick Keith in the stomach for even thinking about leaving someone he likely doesn’t know behind to cry alone.

Grinding his teeth, Keith fights himself to keep from sighing. He’d want some privacy, if he were crying in the sim-cab, so there’s nothing wrong with getting out of here, where he can’t fuck up again and hurt somebody. As Keith’s first heel finds the ramp, though, the crier draws in another deep, slow breath. This one wobbles out in a whimper that Keith barely hears. Not a soft one, but it quivers, bowstring taut, as if someone is trying to wrestle it into submission, trying to keep the noise from getting out of them.

Keith stops in his tracks. Nearly chokes himself on the sigh that he wants to let out so badly that it his chest and throat feel like they’ve been set on fire. Fucking Hell, he’s found someone crying _by themself_ in the sim-cab — perfectly alone, as far as they’re aware — and they’re still holding back in a way Keith can’t help but recognize. Something nestled deep inside his chest reverberates as if it’s been woken up from a long hibernation, resonates like it’s on the same frequency as whoever he’s walked in on.

Despite how hard he digs his nails into his palm — despite him trying to focus on _literally anything else_ that he can think of, no matter what it is — Keith’s mind throws up memories of all the times he ever cried himself to sleep, wondering why his Mom hadn’t come to get him yet. All the times he ever sat up on Dad’s ratty old sofa, swallowing any of his own whimpers so Dad wouldn’t hear them because Keith knew how miserable Dad was after Mom left them and Keith didn’t want to hurt one of the only people who’d ever cared about him by crying about something that Keith knew Dad couldn’t fix. All the times after Dad died, when he secluded himself somewhere in the orphanage or one of his foster homes so he could cry without being called a weakling for it, but hoped that someone might give enough of a shit to come find him and lie to Keith that everything would be okay.

All the times when someone _did_ find him, usually by accident, and snapped at Keith to toughen up and quash any notions that his problems mattered because who did he think he was, acting like he had any right to cry.

Clenching his jaw, Keith slips back into the sim-cab. As much as he wouldn’t want anybody at the Garrison sticking their nose into his business uninvited, he also can’t leave someone alone like this. Even at the risk of fucking things up, the way he always does, Keith has to find whatever he can pass off as sympathy and do something for whoever this is. He needs to try and help them, the way that no one’s bothered enough to do for him since he lost his Dad.

He hesitates only briefly before giving the sim-cab’s other occupant a courtesy knock. Quick and short and as gentle as Keith can manage. Whoever it is gasps, but there’s hardly any energy behind it. Hardly any sharpness on the inhale. Sighing softly, Keith flicks the lights on.

“Hey, I…” He starts before knowing what he wants to say. What he even _can_ say. But at least his mouth takes over for him as he moves toward the pilot’s seat with a mind to face them and lean against the desk: “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone was in here? But then I heard you and I didn’t? I just wanted to come and see…”

As his backside finds the spot where he means to sit, Keith trails off. Part of him wants to frown, but blinking down at the grey eyes before him — red and puffy, still leaking tears despite the long streaks already glistening on those high-boned, tawny cheeks — all Keith finds it in him to do is blink and brace his hands against the desk. He kneads his palm against the edge and tries not to let his own gasp slip out when, at the moment, he’s not the one who’s most actively a mess. He’s not the one who’s hunched over a sim-cabin desk with his uniform’s jacket unbuttoned and hanging open, smeared damp stains visible on both forearms. He’s not the one who looks paler than usual, not by too much but by enough to suggest that Shirogane didn’t hit the commissary for some dinner before coming here.

Jesus Christ, though, this is so fitting for how the past few months have gone. Of course, the one time when Keith decides not to stand idle by and pretend that nothing’s happening — when he decides to help out while someone else is crying in this way Keith knows too well — the person he walks in on is Takashi fucking Shirogane.

At least Shirogane looks about as lost as Keith feels, right this second. Every time he blinks at Keith without seeming to understand, more tears slide out and he barely reacts. It’s like he’s so far past the point of controlling himself, so far beyond all hope of reining himself back in, and the only option left, in his mind, is giving into his body’s whims. Putting up no fight at all, or none that Keith can see on Shirogane’s face right now. Considering what Keith’s seen of him at the track and at the gym lately, he didn’t go gentle into this situation. But now, there’s no glimmer behind Shirogane’s eyes and he doesn’t straighten his back up into posture more befitting a Galaxy Garrison officer. When he tries, he sighs as heavily as he’s making his shoulders look and droops back into place, propped up on his elbows.

Straining against his impulse to either cringe or run, Keith swallows thickly and hugs himself around the chest. Hunches his shoulders as if he needs to protect himself. As if, somehow, Shirogane can see through him and see full replays of every time when Keith has ever cried like this. On the plus, it might make him look less intimidating, if Shirogane’s feeling skittish? Not that Keith poses much threat to the Garrison’s golden boy. But he probably can’t expect Shirogane to feel the same about that matter, at the moment.

He also can’t expect Shirogane to break the thick, skin-crawling silence that’s worming into the air between them. Keith’s the interloper, so he should take responsibility for that. For breaking any ice or awkwardness. Yet, he has a feeling like his brain’s been replaced by stretched out balls of cotton. Completely blanking on all the decorum he’s forced himself to learn, all the rules that he cloaks himself in so nobody can take away the spot here that he’s fought for, Keith raises his right hand and gives Shirogane a slouching, limp salute.

Shirogane furrows his brow. Blinks at Keith quizzically. But doesn’t stop crying as he returns the gesture and mumbles, “At ease, Cadet?”

“Sorry,” Keith says again, wondering where the Hell all the other words he knows have gotten off to. “I really… I didn’t mean? The cab was dark outside, I really didn’t think that anyone was in here—”

“It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Which might sound more believable if Shirogane could tell Keith so without sounding like he’s dragging each word out of himself, kicking and screaming, and possibly like his throat’s gone raw from bawling. “I didn’t… I shouldn’t have… After I finished the last mission—”

“Come on, _really_? You had no reason to think that anyone would come here—”

“Doesn’t make it fair.” Without pausing to rub his eyes, Shirogane nudges his hair back off his forehead. “I shouldn’t hog the sim-cabin. Know better than that. Other people _could_ have wanted to come use it…”

He arches an eyebrow up at Keith, as if to say that he knows exactly what implications are on the table.

For once in his life, Keith _does_ see the subtext perfectly. It’s hard not to, when calling any of it subtext feels impossibly generous. After all, Keith skulked down here with the intent of doing exactly what Shirogane doesn’t want to stand in anybody’s way about.

But as he tries to make sense of Shirogane’s flat, lifeless expression, Keith curls his arms tighter around himself. Tries to hold his tongue. Tries biting it, because he _doesn’t know_ what he’s walked in on. A few weeks ago, he would’ve guessed that the other boy got passed over for some mission and they picked McKay or Shepard to pilot it instead. Maybe that he’d been romantically spurned by another Garrison legacy, or gotten a token chewing out because he came back wasted after a jaunt off-campus.

Now, though, Keith can admit: he has no idea what Shirogane’s situation is. Whatever’s going on to make Shirogane crack like this, Keith doesn’t want to make it worse. Shooting from the verbal hip never helps anybody, especially when Keith’s hand is on the trigger. Silence could do that as much as saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, though, and even though Keith feels like his words have all evaporated, his mouth and throat jump in, hopefully to his rescue—

“If you’re in here by _yourself_? Like _this_?” Keith has to force himself to meet Shirogane’s eyes — has to tune out the way his stomach tries to tie itself into a Gordian knot and the uncomfortable prickling along the back of his neck — but this is too important for his message to be undercut by how much trouble he has with eye-contact. “I wasn’t here when it started? Total stab in the dark here, but…? I’d guess that crying wasn’t exactly something that you planned on.”

Although he shakes his head _“no”_ without hesitation, Shirogane pauses short of providing Keith a verbal answer, the way he usually would, being so unfailingly polite. Instead of living up to his usual act, Shirogane frowns bemusedly. Gives Keith a long, silent look as if he’s trying to puzzle out a translation for a garbled text that he can barely see, written in a doctor’s penmanship and a language that Shirogane only has the faintest grasp on reading.

With a gentle sigh, he says, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Are you fucking _serious_?”

Keith winces, hearing himself snap that as if it’s nothing. As if he has no sense of keeping himself controlled. Fine, his voice doesn’t get loud enough to echo around the sim-cab, which is good, he guesses. Okay, Shirogane only makes a face like he doesn’t understand the question, and if he isn’t gonna stress about proper Garrison decorum, then it can take a hike. But God, Keith must’ve sounded like _horrible_ , spitting that out like the exact opposite of _helpful_ , the way that he’s nominally trying to be.

If nothing else, he knows for certain that, during all the times he’s ever broken down like this, he would not have wanted to hear someone demand to know if he was fucking serious. It might’ve made Keith stop crying for the moment, but it would’ve made him crack twenty times harder, later.

Clutching his elbow for dear life, Keith tries to explain himself, “I only mean to say? Of the two of us? _You’re_ the one who’s crying. You’re the one who’s in some kind of trouble, and I’m just the asshole who walked in on it—”

“You _aren’t_ an asshole.” For a moment, Shirogane’s voice gets its usual timbre back. Gets close to it, anyway, which is a considerable improvement on sounding like he’s spent the past six weeks living in a world of ghosts.

Which makes about as much sense as finding him like this in the first place, and before Keith can stop himself, he hisses, “You don’t even know me, _Captain_.”

Flushing pink, Shirogane ducks his chin. “Sorry, you’re right,” he mutters. “I only meant to say that, based on what I’ve seen of you? If you’re an asshole, then I don’t want to think about what Shepard and McKay must be.”

Keith shrugs. “A pair of overindulged legacy brats with overly inflated opinions of their actual talents and value to the Garrison? Completely useless, vapid louts who don’t have two working brain cells between them and have never done a day of hard work in their entire, pathetic lives? I can keep going, if you…” _Oh, shit, wait_ — “Off the record, that is? Uh, _sir_?”

Whether it’s a good thing or not, something about this tangent makes Shirogane chuckle. It sounds uncomfortably like someone rustling the guestbook pages at a funeral, but is it a sign of progress? Maybe.

Shirogane’s half-guilty, knowing smirk feels like more of a step forward for this conversation, though. If not the twist of his lips, then definitely the spark that comes back behind his eyes, however briefly it flares up. Then again, maybe Keith’s getting muddled while interpreting the signs. Aside from how easily other people confuse him to begin with, maybe he’s losing his clarity in the way that the conspiratorial look on Shirogane’s face makes Keith’s entire chest feel like it’s flooding with something hot, with something yearning, and, inexplicably, with something pink.

“I really didn’t mean to say… I mean, I _did_ mean how it sounded, because Shepard and McKay are the fucking _worst_ , but I… Not to violate any…” Keith groans and slumps harder on the desk. “ _Please_ don’t stick me with demerits for that, sir? Or hold it against me? Or go tell Iverson — er, that is, I mean, please don’t tell _Commander_ Iverson—”

“I’d be a complete hypocrite, if I tattled on you for saying things that I think literally every day. And Iverson would be a hypocrite if he tried to punish you for that. I think he legitimately _hates_ Shepard and McKay.”

Pausing, Shirogane looks up at Keith — directly at him, as if nothing else even matters. The smirk softens into a genuine smile. Even with his cheeks glistening and a few more tears threatening to spill past his lashes, something about Shirogane’s face makes Keith believe that his smile isn’t fake. “No need to be so formal, Cadet Kogane,” he tells Keith so gently that some reptilian-brained part of Keith hopes like Hell he’s lying. “Or… nervous? You really don’t need to be that with me. Being a legacy doesn’t mean I bite—”

“You were right the first time, just… With the whole…” Keith waves a hand in front of his face with only half of a clue what he thinks he’s trying to get across to Shirogane. “It’s a formality thing, okay? And I mean, really, if we’re gonna talk about formality? Addressing me by my rank and surname while telling me not to be so formal?”

Shirogane quirks an eyebrow, and Keith can’t tell if he looks playful or judgmental. “What do you _want_ me to call you?”

“How about _Keith_? I know you know my first name, okay? It’s only written right on top of all my papers—”

“Okay, okay,” Shirogane whispers, impatiently but somehow managing to make Keith breathe a little easier. “I can call you Keith, if that makes you feel more comfortable—”

“What about me,” Keith blurts out. Cheeks going hot like the traitors that they are, he adds, “What should I call you instead of _Captain Shirogane_? Like, I don’t know… What do your friends call you? Not that I’m saying that we’re actually—”

“I guess my friends might call me _Shiro_ or _Takashi_ , if I had any,” Shirogane says with a shrug. “My brother calls me _Kashi_ , but that’s—”

“It’s more personal. More intimate. You don’t let just anybody throw the name around?” When Shirogane gives him a nod, Keith tries to smile back at him. He means to ask which name-of-choice Shirogane would prefer, but this time, when his mouth takes over, what comes out is, “But okay, since when do you of all people _not_ have friends?”

That fact that Shirogane has to think about that question makes Keith want to punch himself in the face.

Ruffling a hand over his hair, Shirogane sighs. “I don’t know since when, _exactly_? But it’s been a while?”

“But you’ve got tons of people, don’t you? Everybody loves you, they’re all just…”

Keith stops as his brain throws multiple roadblocks down in front of him. For one thing, that day down at the track. Shirogane stayed even after all the other legacies left. Went down there on his own, only left when Iverson came to drag him off. Last weekend, nobody was with him when he skipped breakfast to hit the gym. If he’d hurt himself somehow, nobody but Keith would’ve known a thing. Until Iverson showed up, nobody came looking for him, either. Before those incidents, no one said anything to him when he showed up for classes looking like shit. If anybody did, then Keith would bet what little money he has that said person’s name was _Iverson_.

Worse yet, there’s the look that Shirogane wears when Keith can finally meet his eyes again. He’s still smiling, but there’s something wan about it. Something tight and something else that looks decidedly off-kilter. Not only is he faking it, but he’s faking it with no apparent concern that Keith can _tell_ how full of shit he is. Either he’s condescending to Keith or something here is more wrong than he wants to admit, and there’s too much racketing around Keith’s head for him to tell. Too many things he needs to consider, too many factors to account for, too much going on.

About the only thing that Shirogane isn’t feigning is the apologetic glint behind his straining lips, but that doesn’t make Keith feel better. It makes him feel like he’s getting paid to push someone in front of an oncoming train.

“Well, which name would you like better?” He barely manages a whisper while asking that question. As annoying as his hair can be when he lets it grow out for too long, Keith wouldn’t mind hiding in his bangs right now. He only resists because he owes Shirogane more than that, after questioning his claims about his own life, based on presumptions instead of actual evidence of anything.

“If you had friends,” Keith says again, “which name would you most want them to use for you?”

Again, he needs to think about it, but at least he drops the phony smile. “I’d like ‘Shiro’ better, I think? Commander Iverson already uses it for me when we don’t have to stick to decorum or there’s no one else around… So do several people who I did not give my permission—”

“Like Shepard and McKay?”

Shirogane — no, wait, _Shiro_ — Shiro nods in a way that says Shepard and McKay might only be the tip of his annoyance iceberg.

“Either way, ‘Shiro’ would be easier to get used to, and…” He shrugs the pointed shrug of someone who desperately wants Keith to believe that there isn’t any deeper significance when he says, “Pretty much anything would be better than calling me, _‘Takashi.’_ ”

“I could call you, ‘Fuckhead’ if you wanted,” Keith points out. “Would _that_ be better calling you, ‘Takashi’?”

“For my own comfort? Yes.” But Shiro snorts in amusement and feels compelled to add, “For you, though? Probably not. I’m fairly certain that Commander Iverson _would_ stick you with demerits for calling me _Fuckhead_ anywhere that he could hear you do it—”

“Yeah, God forbid anyone ridicule his precious _favorite_ , right?”

Two things about that statement smack Keith upside the head with surprise. First, the lack of venom or resentment in his own voice. How in creation is he keeping his tone so light, so playful? Even putting aside the part where he’s doing this with Shirogane — no, wait, fuck shit dammit, _Shiro_ , that’s what he _wants_ to be called, which means his name is _Shiro_ , now — who’s still Keith’s senior officer, in addition to being a Garrison legacy golden boy and pretty much everything that Keith is not (or so Keith believed, until recent developments that are still happening right now)? Even if Keith ignores the reasons why he shouldn’t be having a conversation like this with Shiro, there’s still the part where talking to other people _never_ comes so easily to him.

Secondly, though, there’s the way that Shiro’s smiling at him now. Sure, there’s a self-deprecating edge to it — because there’s no way that Keith can interpret the softness of Shiro’s eyes and the faintly apologetic curl of his lips as anything _but_ self-deprecating, especially when he’d rather be called _Fuckhead_ than the name that (Keith assumes) his parents gave him — but underneath that lies… Happiness? Relief, maybe? Something confusing as all get-out, that’s for sure, because there’s no way in Hell that somebody like Shiro should look so perfectly contented about getting insulted by somebody like Keith.

“You’re secretly _weird_ , you know that?” Keith informs him before he can think about whether or not this might be a bad idea. “ _Significantly_ weirder than you lead us to believe in class—”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Shiro tilts his head as if he’s genuinely curious.

“Give me time to make up my mind on that. Right now, it’s just a thing and I’m observing it because you dropped it right in front of me.” Drumming his fingers along his elbow, Keith can’t shake the bad taste that this answer puts into his mouth.

Trying to give the golden boy something a little better, in case Shiro might be serious about keeping Keith around after tonight, he says, “I’m just saying, Shiro? If I ever went into town with a fake ID — not that I have one, but if I did — and got drunk on a Monday night and came to class hungover? I would _not_ have kept anything together half as well as you have.”

This makes Shiro scrunch up his face and twitch his nose like a particularly perplexed rabbit. For a moment, Keith’s heart screeches to a halt and he holds his breath. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck him, no. He’s done something wrong. He doesn’t know what it is, but he’s said the wrong thing or put Shiro off of dealing with him now, or—

“I’ve never come to class hungover?” Shiro offers penitently, even though he’s not the fuck-up in this situation. As pink blooms up on his unfairly pretty cheeks again, he explains, “I’m not really… I can’t hold my liquor at all. After a couple light beers, I get embarrassing—”

“ _How_ embarrassing?” bursts out of Keith’s throat, even though he tries to hold it back.

Shiro’s cheeks darken further, his rosy blush darkening to a more strawberry shade. “Last time I drank was when Iverson dragged me into town for my birthday,” he admits. “My brother couldn’t make it out here but wouldn’t tell me _why_. It’s a Saturday night, so Iverson tells me to cut loose for once. So, I got three sheets to the wind _wasted_ and nearly fell asleep on his shoulder, singing pop music. And then I sort of…”

He squirms and holy shit, going all red like this, his face is more beautiful than any one human being ought to be allowed. “Threw an empty bottle in the general vicinity of a cop? Without any _intent_ to hit him, and I _didn’t_ hit him? But since the bottle hit his vehicle and shattered, I can’t exactly blame him for not wanting to split that particular hair? And if not for Commander Iverson intervening and convincing the cop not to make any sort of, erm, _kerfuffle_ about this, I don’t entirely…”

He trails off into a sheepish grin, and Keith cannot help laughing.

As Keith doubles over and completely fails to hold himself together, Shiro chuckles. “So, that’s why I don’t drink that often,” he says. “Which is why… I’m sort of confused? About you saying that you thought I’d ever come to class hungover?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Keith barely manages to squeak out around another laugh.

The idea of Shiro almost-but-not-quite-assaulting a cop while drunk off his ass remains hilarious, but somewhat less so when Keith’s on the receiving end of such a lost-looking expression from someone who only finally seems to have stopped crying.

So, Keith helps himself to a few deep breaths, tries to center himself, and when he feels up to it, explains how many times lately he’s noticed Shiro looking other than his best, in class. The messy hair, the sometimes-stubble, the buttons that Shiro sometimes hasn’t done up properly, so it looks like maybe he dressed in the dark while getting ready to leave some girl’s apartment, or maybe some guy’s place, like, what does Keith know—

“Some _guy’s_ apartment,” Shiro cuts in with a shrug. “I haven’t been seeing anybody lately, but if I had, then… Well, I mean, I’m gay, so I wouldn’t be leaving some girl’s apartment. Not unless, I don’t know, she’d needed an escort home and I hadn’t felt okay with leaving her by herself.”

“Makes sense,” Keith supposes. And there are more important things to handle, he knows this. But even so, he scoots close enough to nudge his hip against Shiro’s arm. “Me too. I mean, I’m bi, not gay, and don’t have anybody to go seeing, but just… Y’know, I’m not straight, either?”

Which makes Shiro smile at him, all warm and dewy-eyed but not like he might start crying again. Which, in turn, makes Keith’s heart start somersaulting like it’s getting a routine ready so it can qualify for next summer’s Olympics in Buenos Aires. Which makes everything crash down that much harder when Shiro sighs grimly and tells him—

“If I’ve seemed off in class lately, it’s more… I haven’t been sleeping well—”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Keith points at his own eyes, by way of indicating what he means about the dark circles under Shiro’s. “The fact that nobody else but _Iverson_ can tell is sort of…” He grumbles, trying to come up with something other than a string of curses that, in practical terms, wouldn’t mean much of anything. “Just, is everybody on this campus _stupid_ , except for me and him?”

“I mean, I have a few more people around here whom I respect? And I can’t entirely blame the ones who don’t notice…” Shiro pauses as if expecting some kind of objection to that. In the face of Keith’s befuddled gaping, all he does is shrug and explain, “It isn’t that anyone else is stupid for not noticing how I’ve apparently been doing lately, Keith. Most people just don’t care to ask questions, like you do. You can work a lot of magic by smiling and nodding and telling them that everything is fine.”

“Even though it clearly isn’t fine?“ Keith huffs and hugs himself tighter, shoulders curling around the rest of him like a pill-bug’s protective ball. ”Even though, actually, everything’s kind of a horrendous fucking mess?”

He isn’t really asking questions and Shiro can no doubt tell as much. At the same time, though, Keith doesn’t want to sound too much like he knows what he’s talking about. He wants to come off like maybe he read about this phenomenon once in the library, not like he has any firsthand experience with pretending that everything’s okay when other people wouldn’t. Not like he’s known the feeling of stretching the truth with kindly social workers about what went on in his foster homes.

Definitely not like he ever had to lie to so many well-meaning teachers about how things were going fine outside of school because his Dad didn’t hit him or neglect him when he was doing okay or scare Keith any, Dad just drank too much sometimes, and if Keith ever got taken from him, then Mom might not know where to find them when she came back for Keith, the way she promised that she would — so, as far as Mrs. So-and-So was concerned, everything at home was going _perfectly fine, ma’am, thank you for your concern_.

No matter how much or how badly Shiro’s gentle smile, summer sunshiny-sounding laugh, and soft, grey eyes make Keith want to trust him, there are some things that are nobody’s business but Keith’s alone. That’s how it’s always been.

“Even though you’d do anything for someone to notice that everything’s a wreck, but then they try and you can’t let them because it’s _your_ mess and who gave _them_ the right,“ he keeps going, despite the voice in the back of his head screaming for Keith to shut the Hell up before he convinces Shiro that he’s a total head-case. ”Even though your hoverbike won’t start, your house exploded, you’re all alone, and your entire life’s on fire, but you’ve got nothing left that’s going for you anymore — except for one thing you _know_ that you can handle and convincing yourself that everything is completely fucking _fine_?”

Dimly, it occurs to Keith that he may not be doing the best job of fooling Shiro, talking like this.

But to his credit, Shiro nods without rubbing Keith’s face in anything that he’s just said.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t blame them even if I didn’t smile and nod so often,” he says, too casually but with an air like he _knows_ that he’s being borderline dismissive about something serious. “People can’t really be expected to notice something when there’s only three names on the list of folks who think that there’s a problem and not a one of them is mine.”

“Your brother and Iverson?” When Shiro nods, Keith racks his brain for who the third name could belong to. Holt and Montgomery are not the answer. Neither is Mr. Harris. Guessing Shepard and McKay makes Shiro arch an eyebrow like Keith just suggested skinny-dipping in the Reflecting Pool by the Washington Monument — then again, Keith didn’t expect anything different, considering that Shepard and McKay are… Well, utterly, unavoidably, and impossibly _themselves_ , in the absolute worst sense of that term.

Sighing, he throws his hands up in surrender. “I give up, Shiro. Who’s the third person?”

Which gets Keith looked at as if Shiro doesn’t understand why that’s a question.

“Well, he’s the only one on the list who didn’t know what’s been going on for me,” Shiro offers as though this explains literally anything. “Which isn’t his fault, because we haven’t talked much before today, so how _could_ he know anything? But even without knowing anything about my Grandfather and _barely_ knowing anything about me, he still noticed that I’ve been a total wreck when people who’ve known me for _years_ didn’t say a single thing.”

He peers up at Keith, expectation obvious on every centimeter of that stupid, pretty face. When Keith shakes his head, Shiro sighs. “And he’s standing in this sim-cab right now. Wearing an orange-and-cream jacket with his bronze wing insignia pinned on it. And he wandered in on me while I was crying—”

“Wait, hold up a minute,” Keith splutters. “You mean _me_?”

Shiro nods. “You’re more perceptive than people give you credit for, Keith. I mean, I thought as much from grading some of your papers for Commander Iverson, but…” A shrug, as if anything about this makes sense or even remotely resembles easy. “Have to say, though? I didn’t expect to personally find myself on the receiving end of that.”

“You know you’re sorta hard to miss, right?” But that’s so far from the ballpark of what Keith really wants to ask that it might as well be orbiting Jupiter. Forcing his voice to stay soft and even, Keith says, “What happened with your grandfather? If you want to tell me, I mean, and you don’t need to—”

“He passed away,” Shiro cuts in, voice straining but to no effect that Keith can guess. “Back in March. Came out of nowhere for me. And he raised me and Ryou after we lost our parents, so I’ve sort of been…” With a low whistle, he lifts a hand, tilts it back and forth. “Adrift, I guess? And I wanted to think I had everything together, but… God, I thought I didn’t deserve being named for him when he was still alive, but after this…?”

Oh, okay, that makes perfect sense.

Oh, _fuck_ , that really does make sense, though, doesn’t it.

Keith should do something. Or say something. Even if it’s just to say he’s sorry, that’s better than leaving Shiro with a bunch of dead air. He shouldn’t simply let this go, that isn’t why Keith came back in here instead of simply leaving. But as he reaches for Shiro’s wrist, it slides off the desk. He reaches for Shiro’s elbow, but Shiro drags himself to standing. As he stretches out his back and arms, Shiro doesn’t even seem to notice that Keith almost caught his sleeve, much less that Keith is furrowing his brow.

The smile that he gives Keith is small and wan and tired, but at least Shiro has integrity enough not to fake it.

“Thanks for talking, Keith,” he says, dropping his right hand onto Keith’s shoulder and giving him a squeeze. “Don’t stay here practicing too late. I can only do so much to talk the professors and senior officers out of writing you up, if you miss curfew.”

Keith nods in understanding, but he can’t find his voice or remember how to work his limbs. As he watches Shiro slink out of the sim-cab, Keith’s body feels like he’s been turned to stone and glued in place. All he knows is that he can’t let this stand for long. He has to do something about this — _anything_ — and whatever that something ends up being, Keith needs to make it happen _now_.

*** * ***

Back in Shiro’s dorm, it’s shaping up to be another late night. Another night when sleep takes its sweet time finding him, if it gets here at all.

Of course, there are worse fates. Shiro reminds himself of this while muddling through a shower. Cleaning up enough to feel like he’s a real person, not just a collection of questionable choices and emotions that he can barely keep leashed up, all loosely tied together like trying to treat a gunshot wound with a flimsy bandaid.

As poorly as today went, there were so many chances for things to take even worse turns than they did. Shiro’s appointment with Ms. Cvetkovich could’ve ended with a recommendation that he be temporarily removed from active duty or consideration for any missions. Commander Iverson could’ve heard Shiro’s report about said session and come to a similar conclusion about his protégé’s (his _favorite’s_ ) fitness for duty or lack thereof. Shiro could’ve had his big meltdown interrupted by McKay, whose grasp of boundaries only exists when the limits in question are his own, and then everyone on campus would know by now. No matter how badly Shiro feels like his day has gone, everything could always be so much worse.

Things could also be better, on the other hand, but Shiro doesn’t consider that possibility until he’s rounding the last corner between his room and the showers. As he shuffles toward his single, Shiro spots a pale, dark-haired figure with a razor-sharp jawline, a covered plate in their hands, and an orange-and-cream jacket with its upper buttons undone. The only person but Shiro in an otherwise empty hallway, and they’re rocking back and forth between their heels and the balls of their feet, right outside of Shiro’s room.

“…Keith?” he says, ruffling a palm over his still-damp hair, but it’s mostly a formality, in case he’s wrong. Shiro can only think of two other people who would’ve bothered coming here. One of them is off in California, and the other is Commander Iverson, taller than Keith with brown skin and a darker overall complexion.

Fumbling the lanyard with his ID card so he can unlock his door, Shiro has to ask, “How did you know which room was mine?”

Keith shrugs and supposes that he has his ways. A pointedly arched eyebrow makes him blush a bubblegum shade of pink and admit, “Iverson caught me breaking into the kitchens. He let me off the hook when I said I was there for your sake. Then, he swiped me in and told me where to go.”

“God, I’ve got so many thank you’s to make to him after all of this…”

“I don’t think he… Well, no. He _minds_ what’s been up for you lately? But… I mean?” Shrugging, Keith waits for Shiro’s permission before following into his room. “I guess I don’t know Iverson like you do? But he seemed like he minds how you’ve been doing because he’s concerned, not because he’s angry?”

“Yeah, that’s what he’s been telling me for a few weeks now. And he’s one of the only people I trust, on this planet or off of it, so…”

As he paws around in his mini-fridge, Shiro wishes that he’d made a point of going into town recently. That way, he’d have more in the way of drinks to offer Keith right now. He certainly doesn’t have much in the way of entertaining distractions, unless Keith feels like digging around in some of Shiro’s weathered paperback novels, a mix of comedic fantasy, farfetched sci-fi, and tawdry bodice rippers. Normally, he doesn’t mind his taste, but now that he’s hosting his first ever guest, Shiro bristles and hopes that Keith won’t judge him too harshly for how he doesn’t see the point of filling his room with a TV that he won’t watch and gaming devices that he isn’t interested in playing.

Whatever Keith’s feeling, he smiles when they trade a bottle of water for the plate and smuggled metal cutlery that Keith brought with him. He lets Shiro sit on the bed first, and once Shiro’s comfortably slouched against the wall, Keith accepts his invitation to come join him. It’s nice, but for the moment, so quiet that Shiro can’t help asking—

“Iverson didn’t put you up to watching me eat, did he?”

Keith shakes his head and wrinkles his nose bemusedly. “Should he have?”

“Well, I don’t think so, but…” Shiro quirks his shoulders, but does Keith the courtesy of not trying to fake a smile. “I also didn’t think it was a bad idea to hit a punching bag without my gloves. Which Iverson obviously disagreed with—”

“Obviously,” Keith echoes. “Because that’s one of the _stupidest_ things that someone could do. Especially a _pilot_ —”

Shiro knows. He needs his hands if he wants to keep flying the way he does. Needs them to stay in good condition, which is not going to happen if he endangers them with reckless stunts like taking off his gloves and going at the punching bag anyway. Granted, he also knows that his conduct recently possibly challenges the assertion that he knows anything about what’s good for him.

Even without uncovering the plate, Shiro can guess what Keith brought him. Macaroni and cheese is the best thing that the Garrison’s commissary ever serves, and it has a distinctive, heady scent. Getting a deep whiff of it now, Shiro feels his stomach growl like it hasn’t done very often for the past few months. Probably since he got Ryou’s call about their Grandfather passing and slunk over to Commander Iverson’s office, since Shiro needed to let someone know before he left campus for several days and Iverson was the only person on campus who Shiro wanted to tell about any of this. Before this evening with Keith, Commander Iverson was the only person who Shiro felt he _could_ tell.

His hand’s on the cover over his plate when he looks back to Keith and has to frown. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t need to stay, if you want some privacy,” Keith says quietly, chin ducked and eyes on Shiro’s sheets. “Or, like… If you only invited me in to be polite? I appreciate it and all, of course I do, but… You don’t have to do that for me, Shiro.” A slow, unsteady breath, and Keith sighs in a deep, full-body way that nobody around their age should ever need to sigh. “It’s okay, if you want me to go. After what I walked in on? And considering it’s _me_? I just, I don’t expect—”

“Keith? Can you please look at me?”

Shiro reaches out and waits for Keith’s eyes to meet his own. They threaten to tug Shiro into them and drown him. Swallowing thickly and squeezing Keith’s shoulder, Shiro doesn’t really think he’d mind that fate befalling him. It wouldn’t be _ideal_ , but he wouldn’t mind it terribly. There are infinitely worse ways to die than drowning in Keith Kogane’s eyes.

But before that happens, Shiro needs to tell him, “I wouldn’t have invited you in if I didn’t want for you to stay.”

Keith thinks this over for longer than Shiro likes. Bows his head again, curling and uncurling his fingers in a way that Shiro doesn’t understand but maybe it’s helping Keith ground himself. When he finally meets Shiro’s eyes again, he nods.

“Sorry,” Keith mutters. “I’m not really sure what to do, or like? It’s just… I don’t have friends, either.”

“Well, you’ve got one now,” Shiro promises, giving Keith another squeeze. “You’re not in any of the classes that I’m TAing. At the moment or for next term. So, there’s no potential ethics issue and if you want a friend, Keith? You’ve got one in me.”

Meeting Shiro’s eyes, Keith chuckles. He tries to smirk, but his eyes are too soft and he doesn’t pull his lips quite tight enough.

“I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t want to, Shiro,” he says.

Dimly, Shiro thinks that he and Keith might have their work cut out for them, with each other. Clicking so naturally as this never happens for Shiro, but he has sharper edges than most people ever get to see and as far as he can tell, Keith might well have some walls up. For the first time in longer than he can remember, though, Shiro believes that somebody wants to stay with him. If nothing else good happens to Shiro tonight, or even for the rest of the month, that belief’s worth hanging on to.

This feeling of being welcomed somewhere is worth savoring, for as long as Keith wants to let Shiro do so.

**Author's Note:**

> For my first canonverse VLD fic, I decided to emotionally whump on Shiro. Go figure.
> 
> Anyway, I’m also [over on tumblr](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com), for all your Shiro-related needs (and several Feelings that you probably didn’t want).


End file.
